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HARPER'S 


MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


VOLUME  CXXVIII. 


DECEMBER,  1913  TO  MAY,  1914 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  y  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

1914 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  CXXVIII 


DECEMBER,  1913,  TO  MAY,  1914 


Across  the  Venezuelan  Llanos. 

Charles  Wellington  Furlong  813 
Illustrated  with  Photographs  and  a  Map. 

Adventure    in    Paleontology,    An.  A 

Story  Alan  Sullivan  518 

Illustrations  by  W.  Hatherell,  R.  1. 

After  Death — What? 

James  Thompson  Bixby,  Ph.D.  945 

Along  the  Thames  at  London. 

F.  Walter  Taylor  699 

American  Dinners  and  American  Man- 
ners Wu  Ting-Fang  526 

Amethyst  Comb,  The.    A  Story. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman  359 
Illustrations  by  W.  H.  D.  Koerner. 

April  Night's  Mischief,  An.    A  Story. 

Gertrude  M.  Winter  863 

Aspects  of  Monopoly  One  Hundred 

Years  Ago  James  Madison  489 

With  Portrait  of  Madison  Engraved  on 
Wood  from  the  Painting  by  Gilbert 
Stuart. 

At  the  Sign  of  "La  Reine  Jeanne." 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  261 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  George  H.  Shorey. 

Aunt  Elizabeth.    A  Story. 

Owen  Oliver  732 

Australian  Bypaths. 

Norman  Duncan,  123-209 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  George  Harding. 

Back  Door,  The.    A  Story. 

Clarence  Day,  Jr.  662 
Illustrations  by  F.  Strothmann. 

Blue  Dimity  Dress,  The.    A  Story. 

Victor  Rousseau  611 
Illustrations  by  Walter  Biggs 

Cara.    A  Story. 

Georgia  Wood  Pangborn  304 
Illustrations  by  Denman  Fink. 

Cheap.    A  Story. 

Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall  848 
Illustrations  by  W.  Hatherell,  R.  I. 

"  Christina,"  by  Cecilia  Beaux. 

Comment  by  W.  Stanton  Howard  870 
Engraved  on  Wood  by  Henry  W7olf 
from  the  Original  Painting 


Comforter,  The.    A  Story. 

Elizabeth  Jordan  604 

Confidential  Doll  Insurance  Co.,  The. 

A  Story  Vale  Downie  767 

Illustrations  by  W.  H.  D.  Koerner. 

Coronation.    A  Story. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman  93 
Illustrations  by  Walter  Biggs. 

Crosby's  Rest  Cure,  The.    A  Story. 

Elizabeth  Jordan  785 
Illustrations  by  T.  K.  Hanna. 

Daniel  and  Little  Dan'l.    A  Story. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman  704 
Illustrations  by  Walter  Biggs. 

Devouring  Demon  and  the  Don,  The. 

A  Story.. Henry  Wallace  Phillips  271 
Illustrations  by  F.  Strothmann. 

Diplomat's  Wife  at  the  Italian  Court,  A. 
Madame  De  Hegermann-Lindencrone  927 

Diplomat's  Wife  in  Washington,  A. 

Madame  De  Hegermann-Lindencrone  104 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Dynamic  Education.  .John  L.  Mathews  616 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Editor's  Drawer.  .  155,  317,  479,  641,  803,  965 

INTRODUCTORY  STORIES 

"The  New  Ballad  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner,"  by  Burges  Johnson  (illus- 
trations by  T.  D.  Skidmore),  155; 
"Under  False  Pretenses,"  by  Fred- 
erick Smith  (illustrations  by  Arthur 
William  Brown),  317;  "Further  In- 
ventions of  Professor  B.  House,"  by 
Barry  Gilbert  (illustrations  by  F. 
Strothmann),  479;  "An  Experiment 
in  Journalism,"  by  Howard  Brubaker 
(illustrations  by  T.  D.  Skidmore),  641; 
"The  Suit-case,"  by  Alan  Sullivan 
(illustrations  by  C.  Clyde  Squires), 
803;  "An  Imaginary  Vacation,"  by 
Howard  Brubaker  (illustrations  by 
T.  D.  Skidmore),  965. 

Editor's  Easy  Chair.  .  .  .W.  D.  Howells 

149,  310,  472,  634,  796,  958 

Editor's    Study  The  Editor 

152,  314,  476,  638,  800,  Q62 

Emma.    A  Story. 

Louise  Closser  Hale  434 


CONTENTS 


in 


Girl  That  Is  to  Be,  The. 

Edward  S.  Martin  915 

Handkerchief   Lady's    Girl,    The.  A 

Story  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele  463 

Illustrations  by  F.  Walter  Taylor. 

Honorable  Sylvia,  The.    A  Story. 

Henry  Kitchell  Webster  177 
Illustrations  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

House  with  the  Tower,  The.    A  Story. 

Alice  Brown  919 
Illustrations  by  Walter  Biggs. 

In  Tartarin's  Country. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  853 
Illustrations  by  G.  H.  Shorey. 

Interlude,  An.    A  Story. 

Elizabeth  Jordan  936 
Illustrations  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Little  Milk,  A.    A  Story. 

Nina  Wilcox  Putnam  951 
Illustrations  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

Lost  Boy,  The.    A  Story. 

Henry  van  Dyke  3 
Paintings  in  color  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 

Luxury  of  Being  Educated,  The. 

Henry  Seidel  Canby  68 

Matutum,  the  Mountain  of  Mystery. 

Major  Elvin  R.  Heiberg,  U.  S.  A.  507 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Mr.  Brinkley  to  the  Rescue.    A  Story. 

Elizabeth  Jordan  137 
Illustrations  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

My  First  Visit  to  the  Court  of  Denmark. 
Madame  De  Hegermann-Lindencrone  651 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Mystery  of  the  Yucatan  Ruins,  The. 

Ellsworth  Huntington  757 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Narrow  Way,  The.    A  Story. 

V.  H.  Cornell  577 
Illustrations  by  Frank  E.  Schoonover. 

Night  in  the  Open,  A .  .  Norman  Duncan  591 
Illustrations  by  George  Harding. 

Ninepins  and  Necromancy. 

Frances  Wilson  Huard  569 
Illustrations  by  Charles  Huard. 

Northern  Woman  in  the  Confederacy, 

A  Mrs.  Eugene  McLean  440 

Illustrated  with  Photographs,  etc. 

One  Great  Thing,  The.    A  Story. 

Eugene  A.  Clancy  626 
Illustrations  by  John  Alonzo  Williams. 

Outrage  at   Port  Allington,  The.  A 

Story  R.  E.  Vernede  452 

Illustrations  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 


Performing  for  Matthew.    A  Story. 

Clarence  Day,  Jr.  75 
Illustrations  by  F.  Strothmann. 

Petronella.    A  Story .  .Temple    Bailey  253 
Illustrations  by  Denman  Fink. 

Philosopher  in  Central  Park,  A. 

Edward  S.  Martin  350 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  Lester  G.  Hornby. 

Physics  of  the  Emotions,  The. 

Fred  W.  Eastman  297 

Pilgrimage  to  Aries,  A. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  26 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  George  H.  Shorey. 

Price  of  Love,  The.    A  Novel.    Part  I. 
Arnold  Bennett.  48,  232,387,  548,  714,  895 
Paintings  in  Color  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Real  Dry-Farmer,  The. 

J.  Russell  Smith  836 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Rules  of  the  Institution,  The.    A  Story. 

Susan  Glaspell  198 
Illustrations     by     Charlotte  Harding 
Brown. 

Shall  We  Standardize  Our  Diplomatic 

Service?  David  Jayne  Hill  690 

Solvent,  The.    A  Story. 

Algernon  Tassin  883 
Illustrations  by  John  Alonzo  Williams. 

Spring  Recurrent.    A  Story. 

Edith  Barnard  Delano  496 
Illustrations  by  John  Alonzo  Williams. 

Statesman,  The.    A  Story. 

Marie  Manning  223 
Illustrations  by  Walter  Biggs. 

Stranlagh  of  the  Gold  Coast.    A  Story. 

G.  B.  Lancaster  681 
Illustrations  by  W.  Hatherell,  R.  I. 

Sub-antarctic  Island,  A. 

Robert  Cushman  Murphy  165 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Suite  Number  Nineteen.    A  Story. 

William  Hamilton  Osborne  534 
Illustrations  by  May  Wilson  Preston. 

Survival  of  Matriarchy,  A. 

Carrie  Chapman  Catt  738 
Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Susie,  Sans  Souci.    A  Story. 

Henry  Wallace  Phillips  377 
Illustrations  by  W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

Tangier  Island  J.  W.  Church  872 

Illustrated  with  Photographs. 

Through   the   Heart  of  the  Surinam 

Jungle .  Charles  Wellington  Furlong  327 
•Illustrated  with  Photographs  and  a  Map. 


IV 


Toad  and  the  Jewel,  The.    A  Story. 

Katharine  Fullerton  Gerould  749 

Tobacco    Famine    at   Tamarac,  The. 

A  Story .:  Forrest  Crissey  826 

Illustrated  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 

Too  Adaptable  American,  The. 

Sydney  Brooks  370 

"Toys'  Little  Day,  The."    A  Story. 

Georgia  Wood  Pangborn  114 
Illustrations  by  John  Alzonzo  Williams. 

"Trooper  of  the  Outlands,  A." 

Norman  Duncan  421 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  George  Harding. 

"Turn  About."    A  Story  in  Two  Parts. 

Margaret  Deland  16,  289 
Illustrations  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green 

Unchanging  Girl,  The. 

Edward  S.  Martin  82 
Illustrations  in  Tint  by  Anna  Whelan 
Betts. 


CONTENTS 

Under  the  Apple-trees. 


John  Burroughs  584 

What  is  Gravity ? .  .Sir  Oliver  Lodge  674 

When  the  States  Seceded. 

Mrs.  Eugene  McLean  282 

Why  Do  We  Have  a  Diplomatic  Service? 

David  Jayne  Hill  188 

With  Flags  Flying.    A  Story. 

Cecil  Chard  409 
Illustrations  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

Wrackham  Memoirs,  The.    A  Story. 

May  Sinclair  36 

Writing  English. .  .Henry  Seidel  Canby  778 

Zulik  the  Magnificent.    A  Story. 

George  K.  Stiles  340 
Illustrations  by  W.  Hatherell,  R.  I. 


After  the  Rain  Thomas  Walsh 

Afterward  Charles  Hanson  Towne 

Film  of  Life,  The. 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 

Fog  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 

Kiss,  The  Sara  Teasdale' 

Later  Day,  A. 

Harriet  Prescott  SpofFord 

Life  and  Death.  .  .  .  .Martha  W.  Austin 

Look,  The  Sara  Teasdale 

Night  Song  at  Amalfi. .  Sara  Teasdale 

Old  Friends  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Out  of  It  All  Edith  M.  Thomas 


POEMS 

462     Pity....  Sara  Teasdale  339.. 

252     Pool,  The  Mary  White   Slater  603 

Spent  Dorothy  Paul  615 

847     Tele  gram,  The   .Thomas  Hardy  103 

852     Through  the  Snow. 

Richard  Le  Gallienne  296 

Treasure  Trove.  ..  .Lee  Wilson  Dodd  568 
408  Understanding.  .  .  .Anna  Alice  Chapin  81 
303     Voice,  The  Louise  Morgan  Sill  35 

Wander-lure  Edith  M.  Thomas  281 

White  Night,  A. 
737  Louise  Collier  Willcox  914 

433     Winter  Reverie,  A  James  Stephens  113 

15     Words   .Ernest  Rhys  67 


m 


Painting  by  N.  C.  Wyeth 


Illustration  for  "  The  Lost  Boy 


m  %v  mmea  Sjp  will  ntl?  mtt  X\\t  mI|oU  watlh 


Harpers  Magazine 

Vol.  CXXVIII         DECEMBER,  1913  No.  DCCLXIIJ 


Slj?  Suist  Soy 


BY  HENRY   VAN  DYKE 


HAT  a  child  should  be 
lost  in  Palestine,  in  the 
days  when  Augustus 
Caesar  was  Lord  of  the 
World,  was  no  strange 
thing. 
Syria  was  the  most 
unruly  of  the  Roman  provinces,  full  of 
adventurers  and  soldiers  of  fortune  from 
all  nations,  troubled  by  mobs  and  tu- 
mults and  rebellions,  and  infested  by 
landlopers  and  robbers.  Especially  in 
Jerusalem  during  one  of  the  great  Jewish 
festivals,  it  was  most  easy  for  a  little 
stranger  to  miss  his  way  and  be  hidden 
from  his  friends  among  the  vast  throngs 
of  pilgrims  and  visitors  who  crowded  the 
city  to  overflowing,  and  swarmed  and 
streamed  through  its  narrow  streets. 
Amid  moving  multitudes,  ebbing  and 
flowing  in  restless  tides,  there  were  ed- 
dies and  whirlpools  and  dark,  deep  places 
where  a  child  might  be  swept  away  and 
swallowed  up,  not  only  for  a  few  days 
but  for  ever. 

But  it  was  strange  that  this  Boy 
whom  my  reverie  follows  now  on  the 
dim  path  of  his  earliest  adventure — it 
was  passing  strange  that  this  very  Boy 
should  have  been  lost  even  for  a  few 
hours. 

For  he  was  the  darling  of  his  par- 
ents, the  treasure  of  the  household, 
a  lad  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him.  His 

Copyright,  19 13,  by  Harper  & 


young  mother  hung  on  him  with  pas- 
sionate, mystical  joy  and  hope.  He  was 
the  apple  of  her  eye.  Deep  in  her 
soul  she  kept  the  memory  of  angelic 
words  which  had  come  to  her  while  she 
carried  him  under  her  heart — words 
which  made  her  believe  that  her  first- 
born would  be  the  morning-star  of 
Israel  and  a  light  unto  the  Gentiles.  So 
she  cherished  the  Boy  and  watched  over 
him  with  tender,  unfailing  care,  as  her 
most  precious  possession,  her  living, 
breathing,  growing  jewel. 

When  he  reached  the  age  of  twelve, 
and  was  old  enough  to  make  his  first 
journey  to  the  Temple  and  take  part  in 
the  national  feast  of  the  Passover,  she 
clad  him  in  the  garments  of  youth  and 
made  him  ready  for  the  four  days'  pil- 
grimage from  Nazareth  to  Jerusalem. 
It  was  a  camping-trip,  a  wonder-walk, 
full  of  variety,  with  a  spice  of  danger 
and  a  feast  of  delight. 

The  Boy  was  the  joy  of  the  journey. 
His  keen  interest  in  all  things  seen  and 
heard  was  like  a  refreshing  spring  of 
water  to  the  older  pilgrims,  who  had  so 
often  traveled  the  same  road  that  they 
had  forgotten  that  it  might  be  new  every 
morning.  His  unwearying  vigor  and 
pure  gladness  as  he  leaped  down  the  hill- 
sides, or  scrambled  among  the  rocks  far 
above  the  path,  or  roamed  through  the 
fields  filling  his  hands  with  flowers,  was 

Brothers.    All  rights  reserved 


4 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


like  a  merry  song  that  cheered  the  long 
miles  of  the  way.  He  was  glad  to  be 
alive,  and  it  made  the  others  glad  to  look 
at  him. 

There  were  eighty  or  ninety  kinsfolk 
and  neighbors,'  plain  rustic  men  and 
women,  in  the  little  company  that  set 
out  from  Nazareth.  The  men  carried 
arms  to  protect  the  caravan  from  rob- 
bers or  marauders  on  the  way.  As  they 
wound  slowly  down  the  steep,  stony  way 
to  the  plain  of  Esdraelon,  the  Boy  ran 
ahead,  making  short  cuts,  turning  aside 
to  find  a  partridge's  nest  among  the 
bushes,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  like 
a  young  gazelle,  or  poising  on  the  edge 
of  some  cliff  in  sheer  delight  of  his  own 
sure-footedness. 

His  lithe  body  was  outlined  against 
the  sky;  his  deep  blue  eyes  (like  those  of 
his  mother,  who  was  a  maid  of  Bethle- 
hem) sparkled  with  the  joy  of  living;  his 
long,  auburn  hair  was  lifted  and  tossed 
by  the  wind  of  April.  But  his  mother's 
look  followed  him  anxiously,  and  her 
heart  often  leaped  in  her  throat. 

"My  Son,"  she  said,  as  they  took 
their  noon-meal  in  the  valley  at  the  foot 
of  dark  Mount  Gilboa,  "you  must  be 
more  careful.    Your  feet  might  slip." 

"Mother,"  answered  the  Boy,  "I  am 
truly  very  careful.  I  always  put  my 
feet  in  the  places  that  God  has  made  for 
them  —  on  the  big,  strong  rocks  that 
will  not  roll.  It  is  only  because  I  am 
so  glad  that  you  think  I  am  careless." 

The  tents  were  pitched,  the  first  night, 
under  the  walls  of  Bethshan,  a  fortified 
city  of  the  Romans.  Set  on  a  knoll 
above  the  river  Jordan,  the  town  loomed 
big  and  threatening  over  the  little  camp 
of  the  Galilean  pilgrims.  But  they  kept 
aloof  from  it,  because  it  was  a  city  of 
the  heathen.  Its  theaters  and  temples 
and  palaces  were  accursed.  The  tents 
were  indifferent  to  the  city,  and  when 
the  night  opened  its  star-fields  above 
them  and  the  heavenly  lights  rose  over 
the  mountains  of  Moab  and  Samaria, 
the  Boy's  clear  voice  joined  in  the  slum- 
ber-song of  the  pilgrims: 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills, 
From  whence  cometh  my  help; 
My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord, 
Who  made  heaven  and  earth. 
He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  stumble, 
He  who  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber. 


Behold,  He  who  guardeth  Israel 
Will  neither  slumber  nor  sleep." 

Then  they  drew  their  woolen  cloaks 
over  their  heads  and  rested  on  the  ground 
in  peace. 

iOR  two  days  their  way 
led  through  the  wide 
valley  of  the  Jordan, 
along  the  level  land  that 
stretched  from  the 
mountains  to  the  rough 
gulch  where  the  river 
was  raging  in  the  jungle.  They  passed 
through  broad  fields  of  ripe  barley  and 
ripening  wheat,  where  the  quail  scut- 
tled and  piped  among  the  thick-growing 
stalks.  There  were  fruit-orchards  and 
olive-groves  on  the  foot-hills,  and  clear 
streams  ran  murmuring  down  through 
glistening  oleander  thickets.  Wild  flow- 
ers sprang  in  every  untitled  corner;  tall 
spikes  of  hollyhock,  scarlet  and  blue 
anemones,  clusters  of  mignonette,  rock- 
roses  and  cyclamens,  purple  iris  in  the 
moist  places,  and  many-colored  spathes 
of  gladiolus  growing  plentifully  among 
the  wheat. 

The  larks  sang  themselves  into  the 
sky  in  the  early  morn.  Hotter  grew  the 
sun  and  heavier  the  air  in  that  long 
trough  below  the  level  of  the  sea.  The 
song  of  birds  melted  away.  Only  the 
hawks  wheeled  on  motionless  wings 
above  silent  fields,  watching  for  the 
young  quail  or  the  little  rabbits,  hidden 
among  the  grain. 

The  pilgrims  plodded  on  in  the  heat. 
Companies  of  soldiers  with  glittering 
arms,  merchants  with  laden  mules 
jingling  their  bells,  groups  of  ragged 
thieves  and  bold  beggars,  met  and  jos- 
tled the  peaceful  travelers  on  the  road. 
Once  a  little  band  of  robbers,  riding 
across  the  valley  to  the  land  of  Moab, 
turned  from  a  distance  toward  the 
Nazarenes,  circled  swiftly  around  them 
like  hawks,  whistling  and  calling  shrilly 
to  one  another.  But  there  was  small 
booty  in  that  country  caravan,  and  the 
men  who  guarded  it  looked  strong  and 
tough;  so  the  robbers  whirled  away  as 
swiftly  as  they  had  come. 

The  Boy  had  stood  close  to  his  father 
in  this  moment  of  danger,  looking  on 
with  surprise  at  the  actions  of  the  horse- 
men. 


t 

THE  LOST  BOY 


5 


"What  did  those  riders  want?"  he 
asked. 

"All  we  have,"  answered  the  man. 

"But  it  is  very  little,"  said  the  Boy. 
"Nothing  but  our  clothes  and  some  food 
for  our  journey.  If  they  were  hungry, 
why  did  they  not  ask  of  us?" 

The  man  laughed.  "These  are  not 
the  kind  that  ask,"  he  said,  "they  are 
the  kind  that  take — what  they  will  and 
when  they  can." 

"I  do  not  like  them,"  said  the  Boy. 
"Their  horses  were  beautiful,  but  their 
faces  were  hateful — like  a  jackal  that 
I  saw  in  the  gulley  behind  Nazareth  one 
night.  His  eyes  were  burning  red  as 
fire.  Those  men  had  fires  inside  of 
them." 

For  the  rest  of  that  afternoon  he 
walked  more  quietly  and  with  thought- 
ful looks,  as  if  he  were  pondering  the 
case  of  men  who  looked  like  jackals  and 
had  flames  within  them. 

At  sunset,  when  the  camp  was  made 
outside  the  gates  of  the  new  city  of 
Archelaus,  on  a  hillock  among  the  corn- 
fields, he  came  to  his  mother  with  his 
hands  full  of  the  long  lavender  and  rose 
and  pale-blue  spathes  of  the  gladiolus- 
lilies. 

"Look,  mother,"  he  cried,  "are  they 
not  fine — like  the  clothes  of  a  king?" 

"What  do  you  know  of  kings?"  she 
answered;  smiling.  "These  are  only 
wild  lilies  of  the  field.  But  a  great 
king,  like  Solomon,  has  robes  of  thick 
silk,  and  jewels  on  his  neck  and  his  fin- 
gers, and  a  big  crown  of  gold  on  his 
head." 

"But  that  must  be  very  heavy,"  said 
the  Boy,  tossing  his  head  lightly.  "It 
must  tire  him  to  wear  a  crown-thing  and 
such  thick  robes.  Besides,  I  think  the 
lilies  are  really  prettier.  They  look  just 
as  if  they  were  glad  to  grow  in  the  field." 

HE  third  night  they 
camped  among  the 
palm-groves  and  heavy- 
odored  gardens  of  Jeri- 
cho where  Herod's 
splendid  palace  rose 
above  the  trees.  The 
fourth  day  they  climbed  the  wild,  steep, 
robber-haunted  road  from  the  Jordan  val- 
ley to  the  highlands  of  Judea,  and  so 
came  at  sundown  to  their  camp-ground 


among  friends  and  neighbors  on  the 
closely  tented  slope  of  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  over  against  Jerusalem. 

What  an  evening  that  was  for  the 
Boy!  His  first  sight  of  the  holy  city,  the 
city  of  the  great  king,  the  city  lifted  up 
and  exalted  on  the  sides  of  the  north, 
beautiful  for  situation,  the  joy  of  the 
whole  earth!  He  had  dreamed  of  her 
glory,  as  he  listened  at  his  mother's 
knee  to  the  wonder-tales  of  David  and 
Solomon  and  the  brave  adventures  of 
the  fighting  Maccabees.  He  had  prayed 
for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem  every  night, 
as  he  kneeled  by  his  bed  and  lifted  his 
young  hands  toward  the  holy  place. 
He  had  tried  a  thousand  times  to  picture 
her  strength  and  her  splendor,  her  mar- 
vels and  mysteries,  her  multitude  of 
houses  and  her  vast  bulwarks,  as  he 
strayed  among  the  humble  cottages  of 
Nazareth  or  sat  in  the  low  doorway  of 
his  own  home. 

Now  his  dream  had  come  true.  He 
looked  into  the  face  of  Jerusalem,  just 
across  the  deep,  narrow  valley  of  the 
Kidron,  where  the  shadows  of  the  eve- 
ning were  rising  among  the  tombs.  The 
huge  battlemented  walls,  encircling  the 
double  mounts  of  Zion  and  Moriah — 
the  vast  huddle  of  white  houses,  cover- 
ing hill  and  hollow  with  their  flat  roofs 
and  standing  so  close  together  that  the 
streets  were  hidden  among  them — the 
towers,  the  colonnades,  the  terraces — 
the  dark  bulk  of  the  Roman  castle — the 
marble  pillars  and  glittering  roof  of  the 
Temple  in  its  broad  court  on  the  hill-top 
— it  was  a  city  of  iron  and  ivory  and 
gold,  rising  clear  against  the  soft  saffron 
and  rose  and  violet  of  the  western  sky. 

The  Boy  sat  with  his  mother  on  the 
hillside,  while  the  sunset  waned,  and  the 
lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the  city,  the 
stars  to  glow  in  the  deepening  blue. 
He  questioned  her  eagerly — what  is 
that  black  tower ? — why  does  the  big 
roof  shine  so  bright ? — where  was  King 
David's  house? — where  are  we  going 
to-morrow  ? 

"To-morrow,"  she  answered,  "you 
will  see.  But  now  it  is  the  sleep-time. 
Let  us  sing  the  psalm  that  we  used  to 
sing  at  night  in  Nazareth  —  but  very 
softly,  not  to  disturb  the  others — for 
you  know  this  psalm  is  not  one  of  the 
songs  of  the  pilgrimage." 


6 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


So  the  mother  and  her  Child  sang 
together  with  low  voices: 

"In  peace  will  I  both  lay  me  down  and  sleep, 
For  thou,  Lord,  makest  me  dwell  in  safety." 

The  tune  and  the  words  quieted  the 
Boy.  It  was  like  a  bit  of  home  in  a 
far  land. 


HE  next  day  was  full  of 
wonder  and  excitement. 
It  was  the  first  day  of 
the  Feast,  and  the  myr- 
iads of  pilgrims  crowd- 
ed through  the  gates 
and  streets  of  the  city, 


all  straining  toward  the  inclosure  of 
the  Temple,  within  whose  walls  two 
hundred  thousand  people  could  be 
gathered.  On  every  side  the  Boy  saw 
new  and  strange  things:  soldiers  in 
their  armor,  and  shops  full  of  costly 
wares;  richly  dressed  Sadducees  with 
their  servants  following;  Jews  from  far- 
away countries,  and  curious  visitors 
from  all  parts  of  the  world;  ragged  chil- 
dren of  the  city,  and  painted  women  of 
the  street,  and  beggars  and  outcasts  of 
the  lower  quarters,  and  rich  ladies  with 
their  retinues,  and  priests  in  their  snowy 
robes. 

The  family  from  Nazareth  passed 
slowly  through  the  confusion,  and  the 
Boy,  bewildered  by  the  changing  scene, 
longed  to  get  to  the  Temple,  where  he 
thought  everything  must  be  quiet  and 
holy.  But  when  they  came  into  the  im- 
mense outer  court,  with  its  porticos  and 
alcoves,  he  found  the  confusion  worse 
than  ever.  For  there  the  money-changers 
and  the  buyers  and  sellers  of  animals  for 
sacrifice  were  bargaining  and  haggling; 
and  the  thousands  of  people  were 
jostling  and  pushing  one  another;  and 
the  followers  of  the  Pharisees  and  the 
Sadducees  were  disputing;  and  on  many 
faces  he  saw  that  strange  look  which 
speaks  of  a  fire  in  the  heart,  so  that  it 
seemed  like  a  meeting-place  of  robbers. 

His  father  had  bought  a  lamb  for  the 
Passover  sacrifice,  at  one  of  the  stalls  in 
the  outer  court,  and  was  carrying  it  on 
his  shoulder.  He  pressed  on  through 
the  crowd  to  the  Beautiful  Gate,  the 
Boy  and  his  mother  following  until  they 
came  to  the  Court  of  the  Women. 
Here  the  mother  stayed,  for  that  was 
the  law — a  woman  must  not  go  further. 


But  the  Boy  was  now  "a  son  of  the 
Commandment,"  and  he  followed  his 
father,  through  the  Court  of  Israel,  to 
the  entrance  of  the  Court  of  the  Priests. 
There  the  little  lamb  was  given  to  a 
priest,  who  carried  it  away  to  the  great 
stone  altar  in  the  middle  of  the  court. 

The  Boy  could  not  see  what  happened 
then,  for  the  place  was  crowded  and 
busy.  But  he  heard  the  blowing  of 
trumpets,  and  the  clashing  of  cymbals, 
and  the  chanting  of  psalms.  Black 
clouds  of  smoke  went  up  from  the  hidden 
altar;  the  floor  around  was  splashed  and 
streaked  with  red.  After  a  long  while, 
as  it  seemed,  the  priest  brought  back  the 
dead  body  of  the  lamb,  prepared  for  the 
Passover  supper. 

"Is  this  our  little  lamb?"  asked  the 
Boy  as  his  father  took  it  again  upon  his 
shoulder. 

The  father  nodded. 

"It  was  a  very  pretty  one,"  said  the 
Boy.    "Did  it  have  to  die  for  us?" 

The  father  looked  down  at  him  curi- 
ously. "Surely,"  he  said,  "it  had  to 
be  offered  on  the  altar,  so  that  we  can 
keep  our  feast  according  to  the  law  of 
Moses  to-night." 

"But  why,"  persisted  the  Boy,  "must 
all  the  lambs  be  killed  in  the  Temple? 
Does  God  like  that?  How  many  do 
you  suppose  were  brought  to  the  altar 
to-day?" 

"Tens  of  thousands,"  answered  the 
father. 

"It  is  a  great  many,"  said  the  Boy, 
sighing.    "I  wish  one  was  enough." 

He  was  silent  and  thoughtful  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  Court  of 
the  Women  and  found  the  mother,  and 
went  back  to  the  camp  on  the  hillside. 
That  night  the  family  ate  their  Paschal 
feast,  with  their  loins  girded  as  if  they 
were  going  on  a  journey,  in  memory  of 
the  long-ago  flight  of  the  Israelites  from 
Egypt.  There  was  the  roasted  lamb,  with 
bitter  herbs,  and  flat  cakes  of  bread 
made  without  yeast.  A  cup  of  wine 
was  passed  around  the  table  four  times. 
The  Boy  asked  his  father  the  meaning 
of  all  these  things,  and  the  father  re- 
peated the  story  of  the  saving  of  the 
first-born  sons  of  Israel  in  that  far-ofF 
night  of  terror  and  death  when  they 
came  out  of  Egypt.  While  the  supper 
was  going  on,  hymns  were  sung,  and 


THE  LOST  BOY 


7 


when  it  was  ended  they  all  chanted 
together. 

"Oh,  give  thanks  to  the  Lord,  for  He  is  good; 
For  His  loving-kindness  endureth  forever." 

So  the  Boy  lay  down  under  his  striped 
woolen  cloak  of  blue  and  white,  and 
drifted  toward  sleep,  glad  that  he  was  a 
son  of  Israel,  but  sorry  when  he  thought 
of  the  thousands  of  little  lambs  and  the 
altar  floor  splashed  with  red.  He  won- 
dered if  some  day  God  would  not  give 
them  another  way  to  keep  that  feast. 

The  next  day  of  the  festival  was  a 
Sabbath,  on  which  no  work  could  be 
done.  But  the  daily  sacrifice  of  the 
Temple,  and  all  the  services  and  songs 
and  benedictions  in  its  courts,  continued 
as  usual,  and  there  was  a  greater  crowd 
than  ever  within  its  walls.  As  the  Boy 
went  thither  with  his  parents  they  came 
to  a  place  where  a  little  house  was  be- 
ginning to  burn,  set  on  fire  by  an  over- 
turned lamp.  The  poor  people  stood  by 
wringing  their  hands  and  watching  the 
flames. 

"Why  do  they  not  try  to  save  their 
house?"  cried  the  Boy. 

The  father  shook  his  head.  "They 
can  do  nothing,"  he  answered.  "They 
follow  the  teaching  of  the  Pharisees, 
who  say  that  it  is  unlawful  to  put  out  a 
fire  on  the  Sabbath,  because  it  is  a 
labor." 

A  little  later  the  Boy  saw  a  cripple 
with  a  crutch,  sitting  in  the  door  of  a 
cottage,  looking  very  sad  and  lonely. 

"Why  does  he  not  go  with  the  others," 
asked  the  Boy,  "and  hear  the  music  at 
the  Temple?  That  would  make  him 
happier.    Can't  he  walk?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  father,  "he  can 
walk  on  other  days;  but  not  on  the 
Sabbath,  for  he  would  have  to  carry  his 
crutch,  and  that  would  be  labor." 

All  the  time  he  was  in  the  Temple, 
watching  the  processions  of  priests  and 
Levites  and  listening  to  the  music,  the 
Boy  was  thinking  what  the  Sabbath 
meant,  and  whether  it  really  rested  peo- 
ple and  made  them  happier. 

The  third  day  of  the  festival  was  the 
offering  of  the  first-fruits  of  the  new 
year's  harvest.  That  was  a  joyous  day. 
A  sheaf  of  ripe  barley  was  reaped  and 
carried  into  the  Temple  and  presented 
before  the  high  altar  with  incense  and 


music.  The  priests  blessed  the  people, 
and  the  people  shouted  and  sang  for 
gladness. 

The  Boy's  heart  bounded  in  his  breast 
as  he  joined  in  the  song  and  thought  of 
the  bright  summer  begun,  and  the  birds 
building  their  nests,  and  the  flowers 
clothing  the  hills  with  beautiful  colors, 
and  the  wide  fields  of  golden  grain 
waving  in  the  wind.  He  was  happy  all 
day  as  he  walked  through  the  busy 
streets  with  his  parents,  buying  some 
things  that  were  needed  for  the  home  in 
Nazareth;  and  he  was  happy  at  night 
when  he  lay  down  under  an  olive-tree 
beside  the  tent,  for  the  air  was  warm  and 
gentle,  and  he  fell  asleep  under  the  tree, 
dreaming  of  what  he  would  see  and  do 
to-morrow. 

OW  comes  the  secret 
of  the  way  he  was  lost 
— a  way  so  simple  that 
the  wonder  is  that  no 
one  has  ever  dreamed 
of  it  before. 

The  three  important 
days  of  the  Passover  were  ended,  and  the 
time  had  come  when  those  pilgrims  who 
wished  to  return  to  their  homes  might 
leave  Jerusalem  without  offense,  though 
it  was  more  commendable  to  remain 
through  the  full  seven  days.  The  people 
from  Nazareth  were  anxious  to  be  gone 
— they  had  a  long  road  to  travel — their 
harvests  were  waiting.  While  the  Boy, 
tired  out,  was  sleeping  under  the  tree, 
the  question  of  going  home  was  talked 
out  and  decided.  They  would  break 
camp  at  sunrise,  and,  joining  with  others 
of  their  countrymen  who  were  tented 
around  them,  they  would  take  the  road 
for  Galilee. 

But  the  Boy  awoke  earlier  than  any 
one  else  the  next  morning.  Before  the 
dawn,  a  linnet  in  the  tree  overhead  called 
him  with  cheerful  songs.  He  was  rested 
by  his  long  sleep.  His  breath  came 
lightly.  The  spirit  of  youth  was  beating 
in  his  limbs.  His  heart  was  eager  for  ad- 
venture. He  longed  for  the  top  of  a  high 
hill — for  the  wide,  blue  sky — for  the 
world  at  his  feet — such  a  sight  as  he  had 
often  found  in  his  rambles  among  the 
heights  near  Nazareth.  Why  not?  He 
would  return  in  time  for  the  next  visit 
to  the  Temple. 


8 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Quietly  he  stepped  among  the  sleep- 
ing-tents in  the  dark.  A  footpath  led 
through  the  shadowy  olive-grove,  up  the 
hillside,  into  the  open.  There  the  light 
was  clearer,  and  the  breeze  that  runs  be- 
fore the  daybreak  was  dancing  through 
the  grass.  The  Boy  turned  to  the  left, 
following  along  one  of  the  sheep-trails 
that  crossed  the  high,  sloping  pastures. 
Then  he  bore  to  the  right,  breasting  the 
long  ridge,  and  passed  the  summit, 
running  lightly  to  the  eastward  until  he 
came  to  a  rounded,  rocky  knoll.  There 
he  sat  down  among  the  little  bushes  to 
wait  for  sunrise. 

Far  beyond  the  wrinkled  wilderness 
of  Tekoa,  and  the  Dead  Sea,  and  the 
mountain-wall  of  Moab,  the  rim  of 
the  sky  was  already  tinged  with  silvery 
gray.  The  fading  of  the  stars  traveled 
slowly  upward,  and  the  rising  of  the  rose 
of  dawn  followed  it,  until  all  the  east 
was  softly  glowing,  and  the  deep  blue  of 
the  central  heaven  was  transfused  with 
turquoise  light.  Dark  in  the  gulfs  and 
chasms  of  the  furrowed  land  the  night 
lingered.  Bright  along  the  eastern  peaks 
and  ridges  the  coming  day,  still  hidden, 
revealed  itself  in  a  fringe  of  dazzling 
gold,  like  the  crest  of  a  long,  mounting 
wave.  Shoots  and  flashes  of  radiance 
sprang  upward  from  the  glittering  edge. 
Streamers  of  rose-foam  and  gold-spray 
floated  in  the  sky.  Then  over  the 
barrier  of  the  hills  the  sun  surged 
royally  —  crescent,  half-disk,  full-orb — 
and  overlooked  the  world.  The  lumi- 
nous tide  flooded  the  gray  villages  of 
Bethany  and  Bethphage,  and  all  the 
emerald  hills  around  Bethlehem  were 
bathed  in  light. 

The  Boy  sat  entranced,  watching  the 
miracle  by  which  God  makes  His  sun  to 
shine  upon  the  good  and  the  evil.  How 
strange  it  was  that  God  should  do  that 
— bestow  an  equal  light  upon  those  who 
obeyed  Him  and  those  who  broke  His 
law.  Yet  it  was  splendid,  it  was  King- 
like to  give  in  that  way,  with  both 
hands.  No,  it  was  Father-like — and 
that  was  what  the  Boy  had  learned 
from  his  mother — that  God  who  made 
and  ruled  all  things  was  his  Father. 
It  was  the  name  she  had  taught  him  to 
use  in  his  prayers.  Not  in  the  great 
prayers  he  learned  from  the  book— the 
name  there  was  Adonai,  the  Lord,  the 


Almighty.  But  in  the  little  prayers 
that  he  said  by  himself  it  was  "my  Fa- 
ther!" It  made  the  Boy  feel  strange- 
ly happy  and  strong  to  say  that.  The 
whole  world  seemed  to  breathe  and 
glow  around  him  with  an  invisible 
presence.  For  such  a  Father,  for  the 
sake  of  His  love  and  favor,  the  Boy  felt 
he  could  do  anything. 

More  than  that,  his  mother  had  told 
him  of  something  special  that  the 
Father  had  for  him  to  do  in  the  world. 
In  the  evenings  during  the  journey  and 
when  they  were  going  home  together 
from  the  Temple,  she  had  repeated  to  him 
some  of  the  words  that  the  angel-voices 
had  spoken  to  her  heart,  and  some  of  the 
sayings  of  wise  men  from  the  East  who 
came  to  visit  him  when  he  was  a  baby. 
She  could  not  understand  all  the  mys- 
tery of  it;  she  did  not  see  how  it  was 
going  to  be  brought  to  pass.  He  was 
a  child  of  poverty  and  lowliness;  not 
rich,  nor  learned,  nor  powerful.  But 
with  God  all  things  were  possible.  The 
choosing  and  calling  of  the  eternal 
Father  were  more  than  everything  else. 
It  was  fixed  in  her  heart  that  somehow 
her  Boy  was  sent  to  do  a  great  work  for 
Israel.  He  was  the  son  of  God  set  apart 
to  save  his  people  and  bring  back  the 
glory  of  Zion.  He  was  to  fulfil  the 
promises  made  in  olden  time  and  bring 
in  the  wonderful  reign  of  the  Messiah 
in  the  world — perhaps  as  a  forerunner 
and  messenger  of  the  great  King,  or 
perhaps  himself — ah,  she  did  not  know! 
But  she  believed  in  her  Boy  with  her 
whole  soul;  and  she  was  sure  that  his 
Father  would  show  him  what  to  do. 

These  sayings,  coming  amid  the  ex- 
citements of  his  first  journey,  his  visit 
to  the  Temple,  his  earliest  sight  of  the 
splendor  and  confusion  and  misery  of 
the  great  city,  had  sunken  all  the  more 
deeply  into  the  Boy's  mind.  Excite- 
ment does  not  blur  the  impressions  of 
youth;  it  sharpens  them,  makes  them 
more  vivid.  Half-covered  and  hardly 
noticed  at  the  time,  they  spring  up  into 
life  when  the  quiet  hour  comes. 

So  the  Boy  remembered  his  mother's 
words  while  he  lay  watching  the  sunrise. 
It  would  be  great  to  make  them  come 
true.  To  help  everybody  to  feel  what 
he  felt  lying  there  on  the  hill-top — that 
big,  free  feeling  of  peace  and  confidence 


THE  LOST  BOY 


9 


and  not  being  afraid!  To  make  those 
robbers  in  the  Jordan  Valley  see  how 
they  were  breaking  the  rule  of  the  world 
and  burning  out  their  own  hearts!  To 
cleanse  the  Temple  from  the  things  that 
filled  it  with  confusion  and  pain,  and 
drive  away  the  brawling  buyers  and 
sellers  who  were  spoiling  his  Father's 
great  house!  To  go  among  those  poor 
and  wretched  and  sorrowful  folks  who 
swarmed  in  Jerusalem  and  teach  them 
that  God  was  their  Father  too,  and  that 
they  must  not  sin  and  quarrel  any  more! 
To  find  a  better  way  than  the  priests' 
and  the  Pharisees'  of  making  people 
good!  To  do  great  things  for  Israel — 
like  Moses,  like  Joshua,  like  David — or 
like  Daniel,  perhaps,  who  prayed  and 
was  not  afraid  of  the  lions— or  like 
Elijah  and  Elisha,  who  went  about 
speaking  to  the  people  and  healing 
them — 

HE  soft  tread  of  bare 
feet  among  the  bushes 
behind  him  roused  the 
Boy.  He  sprang  up  and 
saw  a  man  with  a  stern 
face  and  long  hair  and 
beard,  looking  at  him 
mysteriously.  The  man  was  dressed  in 
white,  with  a  leathern  girdle  round 
his  waist,  into  which  a  towel  was  thrust. 
A  leathern  wallet  hung  from  his  neck, 
and  he  leaned  upon  a  long  staff. 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Rabbi,"  said  the 
Boy,  reverently  bowing  at  the  stran- 
ger's feet.  But  the  man  looked  at  him 
steadily,  and  did  not  speak. 

The  Boy  was  confused  by  the  silence. 
The  man's  eyes  troubled  him  with  their 
secret  look,  but  he  was  not  afraid. 

"Who  are  you,  sir,"  he  asked,  "and 
what  is  your  will  with  me?  Perhaps 
you  are  a  master  of  the  Pharisees,  or  a 
scribe  ?  But  no — there  are  no  broad,  blue 
fringes  on  your  garment.  Are  you  a 
priest,  then?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  frowning. 
"I  despise  the  priests,"  he  answered, 
"and  I  abhor  their  bloody  and  unclean 
sacrifices.  I  am  Enoch  the  Essene,  a 
holy  one,  a  perfect  keeper  of  the  law.  I 
live  with  those  who  have  never  defiled 
themselves  with  the  eating  of  meat,  nor 
with  marriage,  nor  with  wine;  but  we 
have  all  things  in  common,  and  we  are 


baptized  in  pure  water  every  day  for  the 
purifying  of  our  wretched  bodies,  and 
after  that  we  eat  the  daily  feast  of  love 
in  the  kingdom  of  the  Messiah  which  is 
at  hand.  Thou  art  called  into  that  king- 
dom, son;  come  with  me,  for  thou  art 
called." 

The  Boy  listened  with  astonishment. 
Some  of  the  things  that  the  man  said — 
for  instance,  about  the  sacrifices,  and 
about  the  nearness  of  the  kingdom — 
were  already  in  his  heart.  But  other 
things  puzzled  and  bewildered  him. 

"My  mother  says  that  I  am  called," 
he  answered,  "but  it  is  to  serve  Israel 
and  to  help  the  people.  Where  do  you 
live,  sir,  and  what  is  it  that  you  do  for 
the  people?" 

"We  live  among  the  hills  of  that  wil- 
derness," he  answered,  pointing  to  the 
south,  "in  the  oasis  of  Engedi.  There 
are  palm-trees  and  springs  of  water,  and 
we  keep  ourselves  pure,  bathing  before 
we  eat  and  offering  our  food  of  bread 
and  dates  as  a  sacrifice  to  God.  We  all 
work  together,  and  none  of  us  has  any- 
thing that  he  calls  his  own.  We  do  not 
go  up  to  the  Temple,  nor  enter  the  syn- 
agogues. We  have  forsaken  the  un- 
cleanness  of  the  world  and  all  the  impure 
ways  of  men.  Our  only  care  is  to  keep 
ourselves  from  defilement.  If  we  touch 
anything  that  is  forbidden,  we  wash  our 
hands  and  wipe  them  with  this  towel 
that  hangs  from  our  girdle.  We  alone 
are  serving  the  kingdom.  Come,  live 
with  us,  for  I  think  thou  art  chosen." 

The  Boy  thought  for  a  while  before 
he  answered.  "Some  of  it  is  good,  my 
master,"  he  said,  "but  the  rest  of  it  is 
far  away  from  my  thoughts.  Is  there 
nothing  for  a  man  to  do  in  the  world 
but  to  think  of  himself — either  in  feast- 
ing and  uncleanness  as  the  heathen  do, 
or  in  fasting  and  purifying  yourself  as 
you  do?  How  can  you  serve  the  king- 
dom if  you  turn  away  from  the  people? 
They  do  not  see  you  or  hear  you.  You 
are  separate  from  them — just  as  if  you 
were  dead  without  dying.  You  can  do 
nothing  for  them.  No,  I  do  not  want  to 
come  with  you  and  live  at  Engedi.  I 
think  my  Father  will  show  me  something 
better  to  do." 

"Your  Father!"  said  Enoch  the  Es- 
sene.   "Who  is  He?" 

"Surely,"  answered  the  Boy,  "He  is 


10 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


the  same  as  yours.  He  that  made  us, 
and  made  all  that  we  see — the  great 
world  for  us  to  live  in." 

"Dust,"  said  the  man,  with  a  darker 
frown — "dust  and  ashes!  It  will  all 
perish,  and  thou  with  it.  Thou  art  not 
chosen — not  pure!" 

With  that  he  went  away  down  the 
hill;  and  the  Boy,  surprised  and  grieved 
at  his  rude  parting,  wondered  a  little 
over  the  meaning  of  his  words,  and  then 
went  back  as  quickly  as  he  could  toward 
the  tents. 

When  he  came  to  the  olive-grove,  they 
were  gone!  The  sun  was  already  high, 
and  his  people  had  departed  hours  ago. 
In  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  breaking 
camp  each  of  the  parents  had  supposed 
that  the  Boy  was  with  the  other,  or  with 
some  of  the  friends  and  neighbors,  or 
perhaps  running  along  the  hillside  above 
them  as  he  used  to  do.  So  they  went 
their  way  cheerfully,  not  knowing  that 
they  had  left  their  son  behind. 

HEN  the  Boy  saw  what 
had  happened,  he  was 
surprised  and  troubled, 
but  not  frightened.  He 
did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  might  hasten 
after  them,  but  he  could 
not  tell  which  way  to  go.  He  was  not 
even  sure  that  they  had  gone  home;  for 
they  had  talked  of  paying  a  visit  to 
their  relatives  in  the  south  before  re- 
turning to  Nazareth;  and  some  of  the 
remaining  pilgrims  to  whom  he  turned 
for  news  of  his  people  said  that  they 
had  taken  the  southern  road  from  the 
Mount  of  Olives,  going  toward  Beth- 
lehem. 

The  Boy  was  at  a  loss,  but  he  was  not 
disheartened,  nor  even  cast  down.  He 
felt  that  somehow  all  would  be  well  with 
him;  he  would  be  taken  care  of.  They 
would  come  back  for  him  in  good  time. 
Meanwhile  there  were  kind  people  here 
who  would  give  him  food  and  shelter. 
There  were  boys  in  the  other  camps  with 
whom  he  could  play.  Best  of  all,  he 
could  go  again  to  the  city  and  the  Tem- 
ple. He  could  see  more  of  the  wonder- 
ful things  there,  and  watch  the  way  the 
people  lived,  and  find  out  why  so  many 
of  them  seemed  sad  or  angry,  and  a 
few  proud  and  scornful,  and  almost  all 


looked  unsatisfied.  Perhaps  he  could 
listen  to  some  of  the  famous  rabbis  who 
taught  the  people  in  the  courts  of  the 
Temple,  and  learn  from  them  about  the 
things  which  his  Father  had  chosen  him 
to  do. 

So  he  went  down  the  hill  and  toward 
the  Sheep-Gate  by  which  he  had  always 
gone  into  the  city.  Outside  the  gate  a 
few  boys  about  his  own  age,  with  a 
group  of  younger  children,  were  playing 
games. 

"Look  there,"  they  cried — "a  stranger! 
Let  us  have  some  fun  with  him.  Halloo, 
Country,  where  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  Galilee,"  answered  the  Boy. 

"Galilee  is  where  all  the  fools  live," 
cried  the  children.  "Where  is  your 
home?    What  is  your  name?" 

He  told  them  pleasantly,  but  they 
laughed  at  his  country  way  of  speaking, 
and  mimicked  his  pronunciation. 

"Yalilean!  Yalilean!"  they  cried. 
"You  can't  talk.  Can  you  play?  Come 
and  play  with  us." 

So  they  played  together.  First,  they 
had  a  mimic  wedding-procession.  Then 
they  made  believe  that  the  bridegroom 
was  killed  by  a  robber,  and  they  had 
a  mock  funeral.  The  Boy  took  always 
the  lowest  part.  He  was  the  hired 
mourner  who  followed  the  body,  wailing; 
he  was  the  flute-player  who  made  music 
for  the  wedding-guests  to  dance  to. 

So  readily  did  he  enter  into  the  play 
that  the  children  at  first  were  pleased 
with  him.  But  they  were  not  long  con- 
tented with  anything.  Some  of  them 
would  dance  no  more  for  the  wedding; 
others  would  lament  no  more  for  the 
funeral.  Their  caprices  made  them 
quarrelsome. 

"Yalilean  fool,"  they  cried,  "you  pla> 
it  all  wrong.  You  spoil  the  game.  We 
are  tired  of  it.  Can  you  run?  Can  you 
throw  stones?" 

So  they  ran  races;  and  the  Boy, 
trained  among  the  hills,  outran  the 
others.  But  they  said  he  did  not  keep 
to  the  course.  Then  they  threw  stones; 
and  the  Boy  threw  farther  and  straighter 
than  any  of  the  rest.  This  made  them 
angry. 

Whispering  together,  they  suddenly 
hurled  a  shower  of  stones  at  him.  One 
struck  his  shoulder,  another  made  a  long 
cut  on  his  cheek.  Wiping  away  the  blood 


Painting  by  N.  C.  Wyeth 


(tfurnr-,  litir  uritlj  m,  fnr  3  think  tljrw  art  rfjomm 


THE  LOST  BOY 


11 


with  his  sleeve,  he  turned  silently  and 
ran  to  the  Sheep-Gate,  the  other  boys 
chasing  him  with  loud  shouts. 

He  darted  lightly  through  the  crowd 
of  animals  and  people  that  thronged  the 
gate-way,  turning  and  dodging  with  a 
sure  foot  among  them,  and  running  up 
the  narrow  street  that  led  to  the  sheep- 
market.  The  cries  of  his  pursuers  grew 
fainter  behind  him.  Among  the  stalls 
of  the  market  he  wound  this  way  and 
that  way,  like  a  hare  before  the  hounds. 
At  last  he  had  left  them  out  of  sight  and 
hearing. 

Then  he  ceased  running  and  wandered 
blindly  on  through  the  northern  quarter 
of  the  city.  The  sloping  streets  were 
lined  with  bazaars  and  noisy  work-shops. 
The  Roman  soldiers  from  the  castle 
were  sauntering  to  and  fro.  Women  in 
rich  attire,  with  ear-rings  and  gold 
chains,  passed  by  with  their  slaves. 
Open  market-places  were  still  busy, 
though  the  afternoon  trade  was  slack- 
ening. 

But  the  Boy  was  too  tired  and  faint 
with  hunger  and  heavy  at  heart  to  take 
an  interest  in  these  things.  He  turned 
back  toward  the  gate,  and,  missing  his 
way  a  little,  came  to  a  great  pool  of 
water,  walled  in  with  white  stone,  with 
five  porticos  around  it.  In  some  of 
these  porticos  there  were  a  few  people 
lying  upon  mats.  But  one  of  the 
porches  was  empty,  and  here  the  Boy 
sat  down. 

He  was  worn  out.  His  cheek  was 
bleeding  again,  and  the  drops  trickled 
down  his  neck.  He  went  down  the  broad 
steps  to  the  pool  to  wash  away  the  blood. 
But  he  could  not  do  it  very  well.  His 
head  ached  too  much.  So  he  crept  back 
to  the  porch,  unwound  his  little  turban, 
curled  himself  in  a  corner  on  the  hard 
stones,  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and 
went  sound  asleep. 

E  was  awakened  by  a 
voice  calling  him,  a  hand 
iCL  ffn  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 
1|¥  pP|  He  looked  up  and  saw 
H||  the  face  of  a  young 
woman,  dark-eyed,  red- 
lipped,  only  a  few  years 
older  than  himself.  She  was  clad  in 
silk,  with  a  veil  of  gauze  over  her  head, 
gold  coins  in  her  hair,  and  a  vial  of 

Vol.CXXVIII.— No.  763.-2 


alabaster  hanging  by  a  gold  chain 
around  her  neck.  A  sweet  perfume 
like  the  breath  of  roses  came  from  it  as 
she  moved.  Her  voice  was  soft  and 
kind. 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "you  are 
wounded;  some  one  has  hurt  you. 
What  are  you  doing  here?  You  look 
like  a  little  brother  that  I  had  long  ago. 
Come  with  me.    I  will  take  care  of  you." 

The  Boy  rose  and  tried  to  go  with 
her.  But  he  was  stifF  and  sore;  he  could 
hardly  walk;  his  head  was  swimming. 
The  young  woman  beckoned  to  a  Nu- 
bian slave  who  followed  her.  He  took 
the  Boy  in  his  big  black  arms  and  so 
carried  him  to  a  pleasant  house  with  a 
garden. 

There  were  couches  and  cushions 
there,  in  a  marble  court  around  a  foun- 
tain. There  were  servants  who  brought 
towels  and  ointments.  The  young 
woman  bathed  the  Boy's  wound  and 
his  feet.  The  servants  came  with  food, 
and  she  made  him  eat  of  the  best.  His 
eyes  grew  bright  again  and  the  color 
came  into  his  cheeks.  He  talked  to  her 
of  his  life  in  Nazareth,  of  the  adventures 
of  his  first  journey,  and  of  the  way  he 
came  to  be  lost. 

She  listened  to  him  intently,  as  if 
there  were  some  strange  charm  in  his 
simple  talk.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  him 
with  pleasure.  A  new  look  swept  over 
her  face.    She  leaned  close  to  him. 

"Stay  with  me,  boy,"  she  murmured, 
"for  I  want  you.  Your  people  are  gone. 
You  shall  sleep  here  to-night — you  shall 
live  with  me  and  I  will  be  good  to  you 
— I  will  teach  you  to  love  me." 

The  Boy  moved  back  a  little,  and 
looked  at  her  with  wide  eyes,  as  if  she 
were  saying  something  that  he  could  not 
understand. 

"But  you  have  already  been  good  to 
me,  sister,"  he  answered,  "and  I  love 
you  already,  even  as  your  brother  did. 
Is  your  husband  here?  Will  he  come 
soon,  so  that  we  can  all  say  the  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  together  for  the  food?" 

Her  look  changed  again;  her  eyes 
filled  with  pain  and  sorrow;  she  shrank 
back  and  turned  away  her  face. 

"I  have  no  husband,"  she  said.  "Ah, 
boy,  innocent  boy,  you  do  not  under- 
stand. I  eat  the  bread  of  shame  and 
live  in  the  house  of  wickedness.    I  am  a 


12 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


sinner,  a  sinner  of  the  city.  How  could 
I  pray?" 

With  that  she  fell  a-sobbing,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro,  and  the  tears  ran 
through  her  fingers  like  rain.  The  Boy 
looked  at  her,  astonished  and  pitiful. 
He  moved  nearer  to  her,  after  a  mo- 
ment, and  spoke  softly. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sister,"  he  said — 
and  as  he  spoke  he  felt  her  tears  falling 
on  his  feet — "I  am  more  sorry  than  I 
ever  was  in  my  life.  It  must  be  dread- 
ful to  be  a  sinner.  But  sinners  can  pray, 
for  God  is  our  Father,  and  fathers  know 
how  to  forgive.  I  will  stay  with  you 
ane  teach  you  some  of  the  things  my 
mother  has  taught  me." 

She  looked  up  and  caught  his  hand 
and  kissed  it.  She  wiped  away  her 
tears,  and  rose,  pushing  back  her  hair. 

"No,  dear  little  master,"  she  said, 
"you  shall  not  stay  in  this  house — not 
an  hour.  It  is  not  fit  for  you.  My 
Nubian  shall  lead  you  back  to  the 
gate,  and  you  will  return  to  your  friends 
outside  of  the  city,  and  you  will  forget 
one  whom  you  comforted  for  a  moment." 

The  Boy  turned  back  as  he  stood  in 
the  doorway.  "No,"  he  said.  "I  will 
not  forget  you.  I  will  always  remember 
your  love  and  kindness.  Will  you  learn 
to  pray,  and  give  up  being  a  sinner?" 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered;  "you  have 
made  me  want  to  try.  Go  in  peace. 
God  knows  what  will  become  of  me." 

"God  knows,  sister,"  replied  the  Boy 
gravely.    "Abide  in  peace." 

So  he  went  out  into  the  dusk  with  the 
Nubian,  and  found  the  camp  on  the 
hillside  and  a  shelter  in  one  of  the 
friendly  tents,  where  he  slept  soundly 
and  woke  refreshed  in  the  morning. 

^^^^^^^^^pHIS  day  he  would  not 
wf^^^^^^^  spend  in  playing  and 
ffij  ^fif  wandering.    He  would 

<H  t  1  mw  &°  stra^Snt  to  tne  Tem- 
3  %  U|  pie,  to  find  some  of  the 

^S^^A^mgv^S  learned  teachers  who 
^^^^mm^^S  gave  instruction  there, 
and  learn  from  them  the  wisdom  that 
he  needed  in  order  to  do  his  work  for 
his  Father. 

As  he  went  he  thought  about  the 
things  that  had  befallen  him  yesterday. 
Why  had  the  man  dressed  in  white  de- 
spised him?    Why  had  the  city  children 


mocked  him  and  chased  him  away  with 
stones?  Why  was  the  strange  woman 
who  had  been  so  kind  to  him  afterward 
so  unhappy  and  so  hopeless? 

There  must  be  something  in  the 
world  that  he  did  not  understand,  some- 
thing evil  and  hateful  and  miserable  that 
he  had  never  felt  in  himself.  But  he 
felt  it  in  the  others,  and  it  made  him 
so  sorry,  so  distressed  for  them,  that  it 
seemed  like  a  heavy  weight,  a  burden 
on  his  own  heart.  It  was  like  the 
work  of  those  demons,  of  whom  his 
mother  had  told  him,  who  entered  into 
people  and  lived  inside  of  them,  like 
worms  eating  away  a  fruit.  Only  these 
people  of  whom  he  was  thinking  did  not 
seem  to  have  a  demon  that  took  hold  of 
them  and  drove  them  mad,  and  made 
them  foam  at  the  mouth  and  cut  them- 
selves with  stones,  like  a  man  he  once 
saw  in  Galilee.  This  was  something 
larger  and  more  mysterious — like  the 
hot  wind  that  sometimes  blew  from  the 
south  and  made  people  gloomy  and 
angry — like  the  rank  weeds  that  grew 
in  certain  fields,  and  if  the  sheep  fed 
there  they  dropped  and  died. 

The  Boy  felt  that  he  hated  this  un- 
known, wicked,  unhappy  thing  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  He 
would  like  to  save  people  from  it.  He 
wanted  to  fight  against  it,  to  drive  it 
away.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  a 
spirit  in  his  heart  saying  to  him,  "This 
is  what  you  must  do,  you  must  fight 
against  this  evil,  you  must  drive  out 
the  darkness,  you  must  be  a  light,  you 
must  save  the  people — this  is  your 
Father's  work  for  you  to  do." 

But  how?  He  did  not  know.  That 
was  what  he  wanted  to  find  out.  And 
he  went  into  the  Temple  hoping  that 
the  teachers  there  would  tell  him. 

He  found  the  vast  Court  of  the  Gen- 
tiles, as  it  had  been  on  his  first  visit, 
swarming  with  people.  Jews  and  Syri- 
ans and  foreigners  of  many  nations  were 
streaming  into  it  through  the  eight 
open  gates,  meeting  and  mingling  and 
eddying  round  in  confused  currents, 
bargaining  and  haggling  with  the  mer- 
chants and  money-changers,  crowding 
together  around  some  group  where  ar- 
gument had  risen  to  a  violent  dispute, 
drifting  away  again  in  search  of  some 
new  excitement. 


THE  LOST  BOY 


13 


The  morning  sacrifice  was  ended,  but 
the  sound  of  music  floated  out  from  the 
inclosed  courts  in  front  of  the  altar, 
where  the  more  devout  worshipers  were 
gathered.  The  Roman  soldiers  of  the 
guard  paced  up  and  down,  or  leaned 
tranquilly  upon  their  spears,  looking 
with  indifference  or  amused  contempt 
upon  the  turbulent  scenes  of  the  holy 
place  where  they  were  set  to  keep  the 
peace  and  prevent  the  worshipers  from 
attacking  one  another. 

The  Boy  turned  into  the  long,  cool 
cloisters,  with  their  lofty  marble  col- 
umns and  carved  roofs  of  wood,  which 
ran  around  the  inside  of  the  walls. 
Here  he  found  many  groups  of  people, 
walking  in  the  broad  aisles  between 
the  pillars,  or  seated  in  the  alcoves  of 
Solomon's  Porch  around  the  teachers 
who  were  instructing  them.  From  one 
to  another  of  these  open  schools  he 
wandered,  listening  eagerly  to  the  dif- 
ferent rabbis  and  doctors  of  the  law. 

Here  one  was  reading  from  the  Torah 
and  explaining  the  laws  about  the  food 
which  a  Jew  must  not  eat,  and  the  things 
which  he  must  not  do  on  the  Sabbath. 
Here  another  was  expounding  the  doc- 
trine of  the  Pharisees  about  the  purify- 
ing of  the  sacred  vessels  in  the  Temple; 
while  another,  a  Sadducee,  was  disput- 
ing with  him  scornfully  and  claiming 
that  the  purification  of  the  priests  was 
the  only  important  thing.  "You  would 
wash  that  which  needs  no  washing,"  he 
cried,  "the  Golden  Candlestick,  one  day 
in  every  week!  Next  you  will  want  to 
wash  the  sun  for  fear  an  unclean  ray  of 
light  may  fall  on  the  altar!" 

Other  teachers  were  reciting  from 
the  six  books  of  the  Talmud  which  the 
Pharisees  were  making  to  expound  the 
law.  Others  repeated  the  histories  of 
Israel,  recounted  the  brave  deeds  of  the 
Maccabees,  or  read  from  the  prophecies 
of  Enoch  and  Daniel.  Others  still  were 
engaged  in  political  debate:  the  Zealots 
talking  fiercely  of  the  misdeeds  of  the 
house  of  Herod  and  the  outrages  com- 
mitted by  the  Romans;  the  Sadducees 
contemptuously  mocking  at  the  hopes 
of  the  revolutionists  and  showing  that 
the  dream  of  freedom  for  Judea  was  fool- 
ish. "Freedom,"  they  said,  "belongs  to 
those  who  are  well  protected.  We  have 
the   Temple    and    priesthood  because 


Rome  takes  care  of  us."  To  this  the 
Zealots  answered,  angrily,  "Yes,  the 
priesthood  belongs  to  you  unbelieving 
Sadducees,  that  is  why  you  are  content 
with  it.  Look,  now,  at  the  place  where 
you  let  Herod  hang  an  accursed  eagle  of 
gold  on  the  front  of  Jehovah's  House." 

So  from  group  to  group  the  Boy 
passed,  listening  intently,  but  hearing 
little  to  his  purpose.  All  day  long  he 
listened,  now  to  one,  now  to  another, 
completely  absorbed  by  what  he  heard, 
yet  not  satisfied.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
he  came  into  the  quietest  part  of  Solo- 
mon's Porch,  where  two  large  compa- 
nies were  seated  around  their  respective 
teachers,  separated  from  each  other  by 
a  distance  of  four  or  five  columns. 

As  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  first 
company,  whose  rabbi  was  a  lean,  dark- 
bearded,  stern  little  man,  the  Boy  was 
spoken  to  by  a  stranger  at  his  side,  who 
asked  him  what  he  sought  in  the  Temple. 

"Wisdom,"  answered  the  Boy.  "I 
am  looking  for  some  one  to  give  a  light 
to  my  path." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  seeking,  too,"  said 
the  stranger,  smiling.  "I  am  a  Greek, 
and  I  desire  wisdom.  Let  us  see  if  we 
can  get  it  from  this  teacher.  Listen." 

He  made  his  way  to  the  center  of  the 
circle  and  stood  before  the  stern  little 
man. 

"Master,"  said  the  Greek,  "I  am 
willing  to  become  thy  disciple  if  thou 
wilt  teach  me  the  whole  law  while  I 
stand  before  thee  thus — on  one  foot." 

The  rabbi  looked  at  him  angrily,  and, 
lifting  up  his  stick,  smote  him  sharply 
across  the  leg.  "That  is  the  whole  law 
for  mockers,"  he  cried.  The  stranger 
limped  away  amid  the  laughter  of  the 
crowd. 

"But  the  little  man  was  too  angry; 
he  did  not  see  that  I  was  in  earnest," 
said  he  as  he  came  back  to  the  Boy. 
"Now  let  us  go  to  the  next  school,  and 
see  if  the  master  is  any  better." 

So  they  went  to  the  second  company, 
which  was  seated  around  a  very  old 
man,  with  long,  snowy  beard  and  a  gentle 
face.  The  stranger  took  his  place  as 
before,  standing  on  one  foot,  and  made 
the  same  request.  The  rabbi's  eyes 
twinkled  and  his  lips  were  smiling  as  he 
answered  promptly: 

"Do  nothing  to  thy  neighbor  that 


14 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


thou  wouldst  not  he  should  do  to  thee, 
this  is  the  whole  law;  all  the  rest  follows 
from  this." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  returning, 
"  what  think  you  of  this  teacher  and  his 
wisdom?    Is  it  better?" 

"It  is  far  better,"  replied  the  Boy, 
eagerly;  "it  is  the  best  of  all  I  have 
heard  to-day.  I  am  coming  back  to 
hear  him  to-morrow.  Do  you  know  his 
name: 

"I  think  it  is  Hillel,"  answered  the 
Greek,  "and  he  is  a  learned  man,  the 
master  of  the  Sanhedrim.  You  will  do 
well,  young  Jew,  to  listen  to  such  a  man. 
Socrates  could  not  have  answered  me 
better.  But  now  the  sun  is  near  setting. 
We  must  go  our  ways.  Farewell." 

N  the  tent  of  his  friends 
the  Boy  found  welcome 
and  a  supper,  but  no 
news  of  his  parents. 
He  told  his  experiences 
in  the  Temple,  and  the 
friends  heard  him,  won- 
dering at  his  discernment.  They  were 
in  doubt  whether  to  let  him  go  again 
the  next  day;  but  he  begged  so  earn- 
estly, arguing  that  they  could  tell  his 
parents  where  he  was  if  they  should 
come  to  the  camp  seeking  him,  that 
finally  he  won  consent. 

He  was  in  Solomon's  Porch  long 
before  the  schools  had  begun  to  assem- 
ble. He  paced  up  and  down  under  the 
triple  colonnade  thinking  what  ques- 
tions he  should  ask  the  master. 

The  company  that  gathered  around 
Hillel  that  day  was  smaller,  but  there 
were  more  scribes  and  doctors  of  the 
law  among  them,  and  they  were  speak- 
ing of  the  kingdom  of  the  Messiah — the 
thing  that  lay  nearest  to  the  Boy's 
heart.  He  took  his  place  in  the  midst 
of  them,  and  they  made  room  for  him, 
for  they  liked  young  disciples  and  en- 
couraged them  to  ask  after  knowledge. 

It  was  the  prophecy  of  Daniel  that 
they  were  discussing,  and  the  question 
was  whether  these  things  were  written 
of  the  First  Messiah,  or  of  the  Second 
Messiah;  for  many  of  the  doctors  held 
that  there  must  be  two,  and  that  the 
first  would  die  in  battle,  but  the  second 
would  put  down  all  his  enemies  and  rule 
over  the  world. 


"Rabbi,"  asked  the  Boy,  "if  the  first 
was  really  the  Messiah,  could  not  God 
raise  him  up  again  and  send  him  back 
to  rule?" 

"You  ask  wisely,  son,"  answered  Hil- 
lel, "and  I  think  the  prophets  tell  us 
that  we  must  hope  for  only  one  Messiah. 
This  book  of  Daniel  is  full  of  heavenly 
words,  but  it  is  not  counted  among  the 
prophets  whose  writings  are  gathered 
in  the  Scripture.  Which  of  them  have 
you  read,  and  which  do  you  love  most, 


my  son 


"Isaiah,"  said  the  Boy,  "because  he 
says  God  will  have  mercy  with  ever- 
lasting-kindness. But  I  love  Daniel, 
too,  because  he  says  they  that  turn 
many  to  righteousness  shall  shine  as  the 
stars  for  ever  and  ever.  But  I  do  not 
understand  what  he  says  about  the 
times  and  a  half-time  and  the  days  and 
the  seasons  before  the  coming  of  Mes- 
siah." 

With  this  there  rose  a  dispute  among 
the  doctors  about  the  meaning  of  those 
sayings,  and  some  explained  them  one 
way  and  some  another,  but  Hillel  sat 
silent.    At  last  he  said: 

"It  is  better  to  hope  and  to  wait 
patiently  for  Him  than  to  reckon  the  day 
of  His  coming.  For  if  the  reckoning  is 
wrong,  and  He  does  not  come,  then  men 
despair,  and  no  longer  make  ready  for 
Him." 

"How  does  a  man  make  ready  for 
Him,  Rabbi?"  asked  the  Boy. 

"By  prayer,  son,  and  by  study  of  the 
law,  and  by  good  works,  and  by  sacri- 
ces. 

"  But  when  He  comes  He  will  rule  over 
the  whole  world,  and  how  can  all  the 
world  come  to  the  Temple  to  sacrifice?" 

"A  way  will  be  provided,"  answered 
the  old  man,  "though  I  do  not  know 
how  it  will  be.  And  there  are  offerings 
of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  the  altar. 
It  is  written,  'I  will  have  mercy  and  not 
sacrmce. 

"Will  His  kingdom  be  for  the  poor  as 
well  as  for  the  rich,  and  for  the  ignorant 
as  well  as  for  the  wise?" 

"Yes,  it  will  be  more  for  the  poor  than 
for  the  rich.  But  it  will  not  be  for  the 
ignorant,  my  son.  For  he  who  does  not 
know  the  law  can  not  be  pious." 

"But,  Rabbi,"  said  the  Boy,  eagerly, 
"will  He  not  have  mercy  on  them  just 


OUT  OF  IT  ALL 


15 


because  they  are  ignorant?  Will  He  not 
pity  them  as  a  shepherd  pities  his  sheep 
when  they  are  silly  and  go  astray?" 

"He  is  not  only  a  Shepherd/'  an- 
swered Hillel,  firmly,  "but  a  great  King. 
They  must  all  keep  the  law,  even  as  it 
is  written  and  as  the  elders  have  taught 
it  to  us.    There  is  no  other  way." 

The  Boy  was  silent  for  a  time,  while 
the  others  talked  of  the  law,  and 
of  the  Torah,  and  of  the  Talmud  in 
which  Hillel  in  these  days  was  writing 
down  the  traditions  of  the  elders. 
When  there  was  an  opportunity  he 
spoke  again. 

"Rabbi,  if  most  of  the  people  should 
be  poor  and  ignorant  when  the  Messiah 
came,  so  ignorant  that  they  did  not  even 
know  Him,  wouldn't  He  save  them  just 
because  they  were  poor?" 

Hillel  looked  at  the  Boy  with  love, 
and  hesitated  before  he  answered. 


At  that  moment  a  man  and  a  woman 
came  through  the  colonnade  with  hur- 
ried steps.  The  man  stopped  at  the  edge 
of  the  circle,  astonished  at  what  he  saw. 
But  the  woman  came  into  the  center 
and  put  her  arm  around  the  Boy. 

"My  boy,"  she  cried,  "why  hast  thou 
done  this  to  us?  See  how  sorrowful 
thou  hast  made  me  and  thy  father, 
looking  everywhere  for  thee." 

"Mother,"  he  answered,  "why  did 
you  look  everywhere  for  me  with  sorrow? 
Did  you  not  know  that  I  would  be  in  my 
Father's  house?  Must  I  not  begin  to 
think  of  the  things  my  Father  wants  me 
to  do?" 

Thus  the  lost  Boy  was  found  again, 
and  went  home  with  his  parents  to 
Nazareth.  The  old  rabbi  blessed  him 
as  he  left  the  Temple. 

But  had  he  really  been  lost,  or  was  he 
finding  his  way? 


Out  Of  It  All 

BY  EDITH  M.  THOMAS 


OUT  of  it  all.  .  .  .  And  now  I  see  clearly 
How  little  there  was  that  touched  me  nearly, 
Though  I  hated  (how  idly!)  and  loved  (how  dearly!), 
Though  I  deemed  this  great,  and  judged  that  small; 
Now  the  bounds  I  set  are  a  crumbled  wall — 
Out  of  it — out  of  it  all! 

Out  of  the  years  that  lagged,  or  hasted, 
Out  of  the  power  of  the  griefs  that  wasted, 
Out  of  the  sway  of  the  joys  that,  half-tasted, 
Leave  the  heart  sick,  that  so  soon  they  can  pall — 
Out  of  the  drive,  the  tumult,  the  brawl, 
Out  of  it — out  of  it  all! 

Out  of  it  all.  .  .  .  And  the  world  receding, 
Who,  or  what,  is  there  whither  leading? 
Through  a  space  unknown,  I,  unknown,  am  speeding, 
And  the  fashions  that  were,  away  from  me  fall.  .  .  . 
What  was  that  word  I  would  fain  recall? — 
"Out  of  it— out  of  it  all!" 


"Turn  About" 


BY  MARGARET  DELAND 


A   STORY    IN    TWO   PARTS— I. 


OTHING  interested  Old 
Chester  quite  so  much 
as  a  wedding.  Possibly 
because  it  had  so  few  of 
them,  but  probably  be- 
cause, as  even  the  most 
respectable  community 
is  made  up  entirely  of  persons  who,  be- 
ing human  creatures,  are  at  heart  gam- 
blers, the  greatest  gamble  in  life — 
marriage — arouses  the  keenest  interest. 
Old  Chester  would  have  been  very  prop- 
erly shocked  if  any  outside  person  had 
offered  to  take  odds  on  one  of  our  rare 
weddings;  but  all  the  same  we  said  to 
one  another,  "What  possessed  hertotake 
him?"  or,  "What  on  earth  can  he  see 
in  her?"  then,  in  chorus:  "Well,  let  us 
hope  it  will  turn  out  well;  but — " 

There  were  two  Old  Chester  mar- 
riages about  which  it  was  hardly  pos- 
sible to  say  anything  even  as  hopeful  as 
"but";  and  certainly  no  one  could  have 
been  found  to  take  odds  that  they  would 
turn  out  well!  There  was  still  a  third 
wedding —  But  perhaps  it  is  better  to 
begin  at  the  beginning. 

The  very  beginning  would  be  the 
death,  down  South,  of  Jim  Williams's 
widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Sarah  Gale,  and  her 
legacy  to  her  brother  of  her  baby  boy. 
But  that  was  so  very  far  back!  Of 
course  some  people  were  able  to  remem- 
ber the  astonished  dismay  of  the  hand- 
some, quick-tempered  young  bachelor, 
James  Williams,  when,  without  any 
warning  a  baby  was  left,  so  to  speak,  on 
his  door-step.  At  least,  it  arrived  in 
charge  of  a  colored  mammy,  who  in- 
stalled herself  at  the  Tavern,  where 
young  Williams  had  lived  since  his 
mother's  death;  and  when,  in  the  April 
dusk,  he  came  sauntering  home  to  sup- 
per, he  found  the  nurse  and  baby  await- 
ing him.  Those  who  witnessed  Jim's 
emotion  when  the  big,  fat,  black  woman 
suddenly  plumped  the  baby  into  his 


arms  had  to  retire  precipitately  to  hide 
mirth  which,  at  such  a  juncture,  would 
have  been  unseemly. 

"What's  this!  What's  this!"  said  the 
startled  young  man,  almost  letting  his 
nephew  drop  under  the  shock  of  his 
soft  little  weight;  then  he  looked  around 
suspiciously,  ready  to  knock  down  any 
grinning  onlooker.  But  nobody  laughed, 
for  of  course  the  nurse,  with  all  the  satis- 
faction of  her  class  in  giving  bad  news, 
had  already  informed  the  Tavern  of  the 
sad  necessity  which  had  brought  her  to 
Old  Chester. 

She  informed  Jim,  with  proper  tear- 
fulness: "Mrs.  Gale  is  dead,  suh;  and 
she  leff  this  yer  blessed  lamb  to  you." 

"What?  My  sister  dead! — Oh,  do 
take  the  thing!"  he  stammered,  shunting 
the  lamb  back  into  the  nurse's  arms 
as  quickly  as  he  could.  Then  he  got 
himself  together  and  asked  his  startled 
questions — for  he  had  not  even  known  of 
Mrs.  Gale's  illness. 

Old  Chester  tradition  said  that  after 
his  first  grief  at  the  loss  of  his  sister,  he 
almost  refused  to  receive  the  child.  He 
was  not  rich,  and  his  little  business  in 
Upper  Chester  scarcely  sufficed  to  pro- 
vide for  his  own  needs,  which  were 
presently  to  include  those  of  a  wife,  for 
he  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  very 
pretty,  very  spoiled  girl. 

"Won't  Mr.  Gale's  relatives  take 
charge  of  the  child?"  he  asked  the  nurse; 
who  told  him  that  for  practical  pur- 
poses the  late  Mr.  Gale  hadn't  any 
relatives. 

"  You's  the  only  'lation  the  little  angel 
has,"  she  said. 

"Little  imp!"  said  Jim  to  himself;  and 
added,  under  his  breath,  "Tough  on 
Mattie."  And  indeed  it  was  hard  on  a 
very  young  bride  to  be  burdened  with  a 
ready-made  family,  so  hard  that  one  can 
hardly  blame  Jim  Williams  for  hesitating 
to  accept  his  legacy.    The  thing  that 


"TURN  ABOUT" 


17 


really  decided  him  to  keep  the  "brat," 
as  he  called  little  George,  was  that  Miss 
Mattie  Dilworth  said  he  mustn't. 

"I  can't  take  care  of  a  baby,"  she 
pouted. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  looking  into  her 
sweet,  shallow  eyes,  "you  know,  per- 
haps, some  day,  we — " 

She  blushed  charmingly,  but  stamped 
her  pretty  foot.    "I  hate  babies!" 

"You  are  only  a  baby  yourself,"  he 
said,  catching  her  in  his  arms — she  was 
so  very  pretty! 

But  his  passion  did  not  soften  her 
toward  the  baby,  though  she  let  him  kiss 
her  as  much  as  he  wanted  to.  "You've 
got  to  send  it  away,"  she  said,  her  red 
lower  lip  hardening  into  a  straight  line. 

He  made  what  appeal  he  could,  but 
nothing  he  could  say  moved  her,  and  the 
wrangle  went  on  between  them  for  a 
month.  Then,  one  warm  June  night, 
down  in  the  perfumed  darkness  of  the 
Dilworth  garden,  Mattie,  choosing  a 
moment  when  Jim  was  most  obviously 
in  love,  said,  bluntly,  that  she  would  not 
marry  him  unless  he  gave  up  the  child. 

Jim  had  artfully  introduced  the  topic 
of  his  little  nephew. 

"Mammy's  a  bully  cook,"  he  began; 
(he  and  mammy  and  the  baby  had  taken 
a  house — which  Mattie  had  expressed  a 
willingness  to  live  in — and  set  up  an  es- 
tablishment); "you'll  love  mammy's 
cake." 

Mattie,  apparently,  was  indifferent  to 
cake. 

"The  baby's  a  cute  little  beggar," 
Jim  went  on.  "I  heard  him  cry  this 
morning  when  mammy  wouldn't  let  him 
swallow  his  big  toe;  Lord,  it  was  as  good 
as  a  play!  I  had  a  great  mind  to  pinch 
him  to  make  him  do  it  again." 

"I  guess  after  you've  heard  him  howl 
a  few  times,  you  won't  like  it  so  much," 
Mattie  said.  Then,  suddenly,  came  the 
ultimatum:  "You  can  choose  between 
your  baby  and  me." 

She  was  sitting  on  a  stone  bench  near 
the  big  white-rose  bush,  and  Jim  was 
kneeling  beside  her;  she  bent  over  him 
as  she  put  the  choice  before  him,  and  he 
felt  her  soft  hair  blow  across  his  lips  and 
the  pressure  of  her  young  breast  against 
his  shoulder.  She  had  picked  a  rose,  and 
was  brushing  it  back  and  forth  over  his 
cheek. 


"I  simply  wont  have  the  baby;  you've 
got  to  choose  between  us." 

Her  lover  was  silent,  and  she  struck 
him  lightly  with  the  rose.  "Well?"  she 
said. 

Jim  got  on  his  feet,  put  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  stood  looking  down  at 
her.  "There  isn't  any  choice,  Mattie," 
he  said.  "Good-by." 

Before  she  could  get  her  wits  together 
he  had  gone.  She  was  so  amazed  that 
for  an  instant  she  did  not  understand 
what  had  happened;  then  she  ran  after 
him  through  the  garden:  "Come  back," 
she  called,  softly,  "and  I'll  kiss  you!" 
He  paused,  his  hand  on  the  gate,  and 
looked  at  her.  Then  he  shook  his  head, 
and  walked  away.  Mattie  promptly 
swooned  (so  she  told  all  her  girl  friends 
afterward),  right  there  on  the  path,  all 
by  herself.  When  she  came  to,  she  went 
into  the  house,  and  sat  down  and  wrote 
him  a  letter,  the  tenor  of  which  was  that 
she  would  forgive  him.  But  she  said 
nothing  about  the  brat;  so  he  did  not 
appear,  to  accept  the  forgiveness.  Upon 
which  Mattie  took  to  her  bed,  and 
seemed  about  to  go  into  a  decline.  For 
the  •  next  week  she  despatched  many 
little  notes,  written  on  scented  pink  pa- 
per, blistered  (the  sympathetic  bearers 
averred)  with  tears,  entreating  her  lover 
to  return  to  her — but  she  was  silent  as 
to  little  George;  and  Jim,  growing  per- 
ceptibly older  in  those  weeks  of  pain 
and  disillusionment,  made  acceptance  of 
George  the  price  of  his  return.  That 
outspoken  temper  of  his  fell  into  a  smol- 
dering silence,  which  was  misleading  to 
Old  Chester,  which  was  used  to  his  quick 
gusts  of  anger.  "He'll  make  up  with 
her,"  people  said.  They  said  it  to  Mat- 
tie,  and  no  doubt  it  encouraged  the  out- 
put of  pink  notes.  But  he  did  not 
make  up. 

In  those  days  in  Old  Chester  the 
word  was  so  nearly  the  bond  that  it 
took  courage  to  break  an  engagement. 
When  the  woman  did  it,  with  loss  of  ap- 
petite, and  (presumably)  earnest  prayer, 
Old  Chester  tried  to  be  charitable:  "Oh, 
I  suppose,  if  you  don't  love  him,  you 
oughtn't  to  marry  him.  But  how  shock- 
ing to  change  your  mind!"  When  the 
man  was  the  one  who  did  the  break- 
ing, the  disapproval  was  less  delicately 
expressed.    "Somebody  ought  to  cow- 


18 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


hide  him!"  said  Old  Chester;  and  sent 
the  girl  wine-jelly  in  sheaf-of-wheat 
molds  to  console  her. 

Jim  Williams  had  not  exactly  broken 
his  engagement,  because  Mattie  had 
taken  the  first  step  toward  ending  it;  but 
he  would  not  "make  up,"  so  it  was  plain 
that  he  was  heartless;  "ungallant,"  was 
Old  Chester's  expression.  As  for  Mat- 
tie,  she  was  a  jilt;  there  was  no  other 
word  for  it,  although  her  girl  friends 
tried  to  excuse  her  by  saying  (as  she  her- 
self said)  that  Jim  cared  more  for  a  per- 
fectly strange  baby  than  he  did  for  her 
happiness.  "I  told  him  I  would  forgive 
him,"  she  sobbed  on  every  sympathetic 
shoulder;  "and  he  would  not  come  back! 
It  is  an  insult!"  she  added,  her  breath 
catching  pitifully  in  her  pretty  throat. 

But  when  its  shoulder  was  not  being 
wept  upon,  Old  Chester  said,  grimly: 
"It's  the  pot  and  the  kettle;  he  is  un- 
gallant,  and  she  is  a  jilt." 

To  be  sure,  one  or  two  people — 
Dr.  Lavendar,  notably,  and,  curiously 
enough,  Mattie's  own  brother,  Mr. 
Thomas  Dilworth — said  Jim  had  shown 
his  sense  in  not  accepting  the  olive- 
branch. 

"It's  a  pity  more  people  don't  dis- 
cover that  they  don't  want  to  get  mar- 
ried before  the  wedding-day  than  after 
it,"  said  Dr.  Lavendar;  and  Thomas 
Dilworth  said  that,  though  he  had  a 
great  mind  to  thrash  Jim  Williams,  he 
must  say  Jim  was  no  fool. 

Old  Mrs.  Dilworth,  with  a  dish  of 
whipped  cream  in  her  hand,  pausing  on 
her  way  up-stairs  to  her  daughter's  bed- 
room, looked  over  the  banisters  and 
reproached  her  son  for  his  harshness: 
"She's  simply  fading  away!"  said  Mrs. 
Dilworth,  tearfully,  fumbling  for  her 
damp  handkerchief. 

"I  don't  think  Mattie  '11  fade  very  far 
away,"  Tom  said;  I've  lived  with  my 
dear  sister  for  eighteen  years,  mother, 
and  why  any  fellow  should  want  to 
marry  her — " 

"  Thomas!" 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  Jim  ought  to 
stand  up  to  the  guns,  like  a  man,  when 
a  lady  summons  him.  Yes;  I  reckon 
I'll  have  to  thrash  him." 

"Mother!"  a  plaintive  voice  called 
from  up-stairs;  "do  bring  me  something 
to  eat." 


Tom  burst  out  laughing,  and  sallied 
forth,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
thrashing  the  defaulting  lover.  It  was 
a  hot  July  afternoon,  and  meeting  Jim 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  he  commented 
on  the  weather  and  suggested  that  they 
should  go  in  swimming. 

"Happy  thought,"  said  Williams; 
"it's  as  hot  as  blazes." 

They  tramped  amicably  to  a  deep 
pool,  where  the  river,  curving  back  on 
itself,  was  shadowed  by  overhanging 
trees.  There,  behind  some  blossoming 
elder  bushes,  they  stripped,  dived  in, 
swam  the  length  of  the  brown,  still  inlet 
dappled  with  flecks  of  sunshine,  splashed 
each  other,  roared  with  laughter,  and 
then  came  out  and  lay  gleaming  wet  in 
the  grass  under  the  locust-trees.  Tom, 
his  clasped  hands  under  his  curly  head, 
looking  up  through  the  lacy  leaves,  said, 
as  if  the  thought  had  just  occurred  to 
him: 

"I  understand  you  and  Mattie  have 
bust  up?" 

"She  doesn't  like  that  brat  I  have  on 
my  hands,"  Jim  said,  gravely,  "and  as 
I  can't  get  rid  of  him,  she  has  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

"I  would  attach  myself  to  the  brat 
with  hooks  of  steel,"  Thomas  said, 
warmly;  then,  remembering  his  respon- 
sibilities, he  added:  "If  you  urge  her, 
maybe  she'll  give  in?" 

Jim  rolled  over  on  his  stomach,  pulled 
a  stalk  of  blossoming  grass,  and  nibbled 
its  white  end;  the  sun  shone  on  his 
glistening  wet  shoulders  and  his  shapely, 
sinewy  legs  kicking  up  over  his  back: 
"'If  the  court  knows  itself,  which  it 
think  it  do,'"  he  said,  "Mattie  won't 
give  in"; — then  he  added  to  himself,  "I 
bet  she  won't  get  the  chance  to!"  This, 
of  course,  he  did  not  say,  or  the  thrash- 
ing really  might  have  taken  place. 

"Oh,  well,  she'll  get  over  it,"  Mattie's 
brother  assured  him. 

"Of  course,"  Jim  agreed,  stiffly. 
"Confound  it,  Tom,  the  sun  is  hot  on 
your  bare  skin.   Let's  get  into  our  togs." 

"'Fraid  of  your  complexion,  I  sup- 
pose?" Tom  grunted.  "Don't  worry;  the 
girls  won't  look  at  you  now."  That  was 
the  only  real  thrust  that  he  gave.  They 
put  on  their  clothes,  and  went  off  in  op- 
posite directions,  Tom  whistling  blithely, 
and  Jim  looking  very  sober.    He  never 


fij>&<<&"     ^xL^i      i  r~**'  i —  .  ,77"  *N  ^ 

Drawn  by  Elizabeth  Ship  pen  Green 

HE    STAMMERED    OUT    "W- WON'T"    TO    MISS    MARIA.    WHO   ASKED    HIM    TO    KISS  HER 


r 


"TURN 

talked  with  any  one  about  the  broken 
engagement.  When  small  things  of- 
fended him,  his  temper  went  off  like  a 
firecracker;  but  when  he  was  deeply 
hurt  or  angry,  he  was  silent. 

Old  Chester  liked  Jim,  and  did  not 
very  much  like  Mattie  Dilworth;  it 
thought  she  would  have  made  James,  or 
anybody  else,  a  poor  wife;  but  in  those 
days,  especially  in  Old  Chester,  tradi- 
tion of  what  was  due  to  "the  sex"  over- 
laid common  sense.  Nobody  ever  forgot 
that  Williams  had  declined  a  girl's  over- 
tures. Even  when,  six  months  later,  the 
girl  was  sufficiently  consoled  to  marry 
one  of  the  Philadelphia  Whartons  (excel- 
lent match,  certainly)  and  disappeared 
from  Old  Chester's  narrow  horizon,  dis- 
approval of  Jim  still  lingered;  probably 
his  cynical  allusions  to  "the  sex"  helped 
to  keep  it  alive.  As  years  passed,  it 
became  an  accepted  belief  that  the 
young  man — growing  rapidly  into  an 
older  man — had  been  deficient  in  gallan- 
try. In  speaking  of  him,  Old  Chester 
generally  coupled  what  it  had  to  say 
with  the  regret  that  he  had  "behaved 
badly."  It  always  added,  as  a  matter 
of  justice,  that  at  least  he  had  done  his 
duty  to  his  nephew. 

Jim  accepted  this  opinion  of  his  con- 
duct with  sardonic  meekness.  Once  in  a 
while  he  referred  to  the  "days  of  his 
unregeneracy,"  and  everybody  knew 
what  he  meant.  But  he  never  brought 
forth  works  meet  for  regeneration  in  the 
way  of  paying  attention  to  any  other 
lady  in  Old  Chester — or  out  of  it,  either. 
Instead  he  devoted  himself  to  the  token 
and  reason  of  his  misbehavior,  his  little 
nephew,  who,  painfully  shy  with  every 
other  human  being,  returned  his  devo- 
tion with  positive  worship.  G.  G.,  as  his 
uncle  called  him,  used  to  trot  along  at 
Jim's  side,  lifting  adoring  eyes  to  the 
hard,  handsome  face,  and  watching  for 
the  lifting  of  a  finger  to  bid  him  go  this 
way  or  that.  Jim's  way  of  bringing  him 
up  was  curt,  and  left  nothing  to  the 
imagination: 

"Don't  howl" 

"  Take  off  your  hat  to  the  ladies" 
"  Tell  the  truth  and  be  damned  to  you!" 
This  last  precept  was  not,  perhaps, 
for  the  ears  of  elderly  ladies.  Neverthe- 
less, obedience  to  such  precepts  will  make 
a  fair  sort  of  gentleman;  and  G.  G.  was 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.-3 


ABOUT"  19 

very  obedient.  Telling  the  truth  came 
easily  to  him,  and  he  was  able  to  swallow 
howls  without  difficulty — very  likely  his 
bashfulness  helped  him  in  this  regard. 
But  the  taking  off  his  hat  (which  was  his 
uncle's  metaphor  for  the  tradition  he  had 
himself  violated)  came  hard.  When, 
quivering  with  shyness,  he  plunged  out 
of  the  post-office  in  front  of  Mrs.  Dale, 
or  when,  almost  in  a  whisper,  he  stam- 
mered out  "w- won't"  to  Miss  Maria 
Welwood,  who  asked  him  to  kiss  her; 
when,  again  and  again,  his  little  cap  was 
not  lifted  to  Old  Chester  ladies,  he  was 
astonished  and  pained  to  receive  what 
his  Uncle  Jim  called  a  "walloping." 
"What!"  Jim  roared  at  him,  "refuse, 
when  a  lady  offers  to  kiss  you?  Shame 
on  you,  sir!"  In  his  mild  way,  G.  G. 
disapproved  of  wallopings  for  inadequate 
reasons.  Had  they  come  for  stealing 
apples,  or  playing  truant,  or  not  knowing 
his  collect  on  Saturday  afternoon,  he 
would  have  understood  them;  but  for 
trying  to  escape  from  slow,  lame  old 
ladies — or  brisk  old  ladies,  who  talked 
about  kisses!  —  it  was  not  reasonable. 
G.  G.  used  to  ponder  this.  But  he  was 
certain  of  one  thing — that  he  would 
rather  be  walloped  than  kissed.  He  did 
not  really  resent  the  walloping.  If  Uncle 
Jim  wanted  to  wallop  him,  why  shouldn't 
he?  When  it  was  over,  he  used  to  shake 
himself  like  a  puppy,  and  (in  spirit)  lap 
the  hand  that  punished  him.  He  really 
tried  to  remember  about  the  hat,  merely 
to  please  his  uncle.  Once,  for  a  whole 
week,  he  carried  his  cap  in  his  hand,  so 
that  it  might  surely  be  off  his  head  at  the 
approach  of  a  lady. 

When  he  went  to  the  Academy  for 
Youths  in  Upper  Chester,  his  terror  of 
the  sex  did  not  diminish.  Probably  the 
happiest  period  of  his  youth  was  when, 
just  after  he  graduated,  the  war  broke 
out,  and  he  and  his  uncle,  enlisting  on 
the  same  day,  went  through  four  woman- 
less  years  together.  Jim  rose  rapidly  in 
rank,  but  G.  G.,  tagging  as  close  behind 
him  as  circumstances  permitted,  got  no 
higher  than  orderly  to  his  uncle — a  posi- 
tion he  filled  with  satisfaction. 

And  this  is  where  the  story  of  Old 
Chester's  two  horrifying  marriages  ought 
really  to  begin.  .  .  . 

Behold  then,  in  the  late  '6o's — two 
gentlemen,  one  very  stout,  with  a  goatee, 


20 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


long,  white  mustache,  and  superb  dark 
eyes;  "terribly  old,"  Miss  Ellen's  girls 
called  him;  "at  least  fifty!"  and  one 
young  (well,  youngish;  twenty-live,  per- 
haps); who  said  "  Thank  you!"  with  ner- 
vous intensity  whenever  you  spoke  to 
him;  also  with  a  mustache,  a  very  little 
golden  mustache,  that  you  could  hardly 
see;  very  freckled,  very  slim,  preternat- 
urally  grave,  "and,  oh,  so  brave!"  the 
girls  told  one  another;  but  shy  to  a  de- 
gree that  made  even  Miss  Ellen's  girls 
(anxious  to  find  a  masculine  idol)  laugh. 
The  two  gentlemen,  ruled  by  one  ancient 
woman  servant,  Ann,  lived  near  enough 
to  Old  Chester  to  walk  into  the  village 
for  their  mail  or  to  church,  and  far 
enough  from  Upper  Chester  to  drive 
every  day  in  a  sagging  old  buggy  to  the 
factory,  Jim  Williams's  large  bulk  push- 
ing little  G.  G.  almost  out  over  the  wheel. 

As  they  drove  thus  one  misty  Septem- 
ber morning,  the  captain  retailed  at 
length  the  events  of  a  business  trip  which 
had  taken  him  away  from  home  for 
nearly  a  month,  during  which  time  the 
younger  member  of  the  firm  had  had  to 
run  things  at  the  factory.  "So,"  said 
the  captain,  slapping  a  rein  down  on  his 
horse's  flank,  "so  there's  nothing  for  us 
to  do  but  get  a  condenser." 

"We've  had  an  increase  in  the  popula- 
tion in  Old  Chester,"  G.  G.  said,  sud- 
denly. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  captain. 
"Who  are  the  happy  parents?" 

G.  G.  blushed  furiously.  "Not  that 
kind  of  an  increase,  sir!  Visitors." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  said  the  captain, 
again.    "Who  are  the  unhappy  hosts?" 

"The  Dilworths,"  his  nephew  told 
him. 

The  captain  ruminated:  "I  think  we'd 
better  get  the  largest  size?" 

"It's  his  sister,  and  her  niece — I  mean 
her  husband's  niece,"  G.  G.  explained. 

"What!"  said  the  captain;  "Mattie?" 
He  whistled  loudly.  "I  haven't  seen 
that  lady  since  the  days  of  my  unre- 
generacy."  By  the  time  they  had 
reached  Upper  Chester  the  condenser 
had  been  decided  upon,  and  the  captain 
had  been  made  aware  that  "that  lady's" 
husband's  niece  was  named  Miss  Netty 
Brown,  and  that  she  and  Mrs.  Wharton 
were  to  be  with  the  Dilworths  for  two 
months. 


"I  wonder  what  Thomas  has  done 
that  the  Lord  should  punish  him?"  said 
Captain  Williams. 

"The  second  size  would  do,"  G.  G. 
said. 

"Is  she  pretty?"  his  uncle  asked. 

"Her  hair  is  gray,"  said  G.  G. 

"Lord,  man,  I  mean  the  niece!"  the 
captain  said.  "No;  don't  look  at  both 
sides  of  a  cent — we  must  have  the 
largest  one.  The  aunt  is  pretty  enough, 
I  wager.    That  kind  always  is  pretty." 

By  means  of  talking  at  cross  purposes, 
a  good  deal  of  information  as  to  nieces 
and  condensers  was  exchanged,  and  the 
result  was  that  one  member  of  the  firm 
was  very  thoughtful.  That  night  the 
thought  burst  out: 

"G.  G.,  you  ought  to  be  married." 

"OA/"  his  nephew  protested,  with  a 
shocked  look. 

"Yes,"  the  captain  declared;  "men 
deserve  to  get  married — for  their  sins." 

"You  seem  to  have  escaped  chastise- 
ment," George  Gale  said,  slyly. 

"Well,  yes;  the  Lord  has  been  merci- 
ful to  me,"  Jim  admitted;  "but  then  I 
haven't  deserved  it  as  much  as  some." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday;  and  as 
the  uncle  and  nephew  walked  to  church, 
G.  G.  was  struck  by  the  splendor  of  the 
captain's  apparel;  a  flowered  velvet 
waistcoat,  a  frock  coat  with  a  rolling 
velvet  collar,  a  high  beaver  hat  that  was 
reserved  for  funerals!  Morning  service 
in  Old  Chester  rarely  saw  such  elegance. 
George  pondered  over  it,  when  not  look- 
ing at  the  visitors  in  the  Dilworth  pew. 
The  Dilworth  children  had  been  put  in 
the  pew  behind  their  own  to  make  room 
for  these  visitors — for  the  lady  with  gray 
hair  took  up  a  great  deal  of  room.  Mrs. 
Wharton,  who  was  in  half-mourning  for 
a  very  recent  husband,  wore  a  black 
satin  mantle,  trimmed  with  jet  fringe 
that  twinkled  and  tinkled  whenever  she 
rose  or  sat  down,  and  especially  when  she 
bowed  in  the  creed — which  last  made  the 
Dilworth  children  gape  open-mouthed 
at  her  back,  for  except  when  Mr.  Sp an- 
gler had  substituted  for  Dr.  Lavendar, 
no  one  had  ever  been  seen  to  do  such  a 
thing  in  Old  Chester!  She  had  on  a 
wonderful  bonnet  of  black  and  white 
crepe  roses,  and  a  crystal-spotted  white 
lace  veil;  her  black  silk  dress  took  up  so 
much  space  that  Tom  and  his  wife  were 


"TURN 

squeezed  into  either  corner  of  the  pew, 
while  the  other  guest,  her  niece,  was 
almost  hidden  by  its  flounces. 

Yet  not  so  hidden  that  George  could 
not  see  her.  He  had  watched  her  thus 
each  Sunday  during  his  uncle's  absence; 
and  twice,  after  church,  he  had  found 
himself — standing  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other — informing  her  that  it 
was  a  pleasant  day.  The  second  time  he 
made  this  remark  it  chanced,  unhappily, 
to  be  raining,  and  G.  G.'s  embarrass- 
ment at  realizing  his  blunder  was  so 
excruciating  that  he  had  not  since  gone 
near  enough  to  speak  to  her;  but  how 
he  had  looked  at  her! — at  the  back  of  her 
little  head  in  its  neat  brown  bonnet;  at 
the  nape  of  her  delicate  neck,  with  its 
fringe  of  small,  light-brown  curls;  at 
her  pretty  figure  when  she  let  her  brown 
mantilla  slip  from  her  shoulders  because 
the  church  was  warm.  Dr.  Lavendar's 
sermon  might  have  been  in  Greek  for 
all  the  profit  Mr.  George  Gale  got  out 
of  it! 

At  the  close  of  the  service  Captain 
Williams  said,  carelessly,  "We'll  stop 
and  pay  our  respects  to  the  Dilworths, 
my  boy." 

G.  G.  hesitated,  blushed  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair,  and  said,  he — he — he  guessed 
he  couldn't,  sir!  "It's — the  weather," 
he  blurted  out.  Then,  under  his  uncle's 
astonished  eyes,  he  bolted  for  home  as 
fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the 
weather?"  Jim  Williams  called  after 
him;  but  he  frowned  a  little.  "He ought 
to  have  his  nose  pulled!"  he  said  to 
himself;  "that  is  no  way  to  treat 
a  female." 

Whatever  Jim  Williams's  past  might 
have  been,  it  was  evident  that  at  present 
he  knew  how  to  treat  a  female.  He 
sauntered  up  to  the  Dilworth  family, 
who  were  walking  decorously  along  the 
path  through  the  graveyard,  and  made 
a  very  elegant  bow  to  Mrs.  Dilworth, 
and  a  still  more  elegant  one  to  his  old 
lady-love.  Mrs.  Mattie  Wharton's  bow 
was  as  elegant  as  his  own;  but  whereas 
Jim  had  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  Mattie  was 
gravity  itself. 

"Come  home  to  dinner,  Jim,"  said 
Tom  Dilworth;  and  Mrs.  Wharton  said, 
archly: 

"If  you  don't  come,  I  shall  think  I've 


ABOUT"  21 

driven  you  away.  I  hear  you  are  a 
woman-hater,  Captain." 

"Ah,"  said  the  captain,  twisting  his 
long  mustache  and  bowing  again  very 
low,  "I  am  only  woman-hated!  And  as 
for  you,  I  hear  you  are  still  breaking 
hearts!" 

"And  I  hear  that  you  still  say  naughty 
things  about  my  sex,"  she  retorted, 
gaily. 

They  were  really  a  very  handsome 
pair  as  they  stood  there  in  the  graveyard, 
exchanging  these  polite  remarks,  while 
all  the  Dilworths,  and  the  little  niece, 
looked  on  in  admiring  silence.  As  for 
dinner — "Indeed  I  will!"  said  Jim;  "I 
know  Mrs.  Dilworth's  Sunday  dinners!" 
and  he  bowed  to  Tom's  good,  dull 
Amelia,  who  was  immensely  pleased  with 
his  reference  to  her  dinners.  Then  they 
all  walked  ofF  to  the  Dilworth  house, 
Mrs.  Wharton  rustling  along  on  the  cap- 
tain's arm,  and  her  niece  reaching  up  to 
take  Mr.  Thomas  Dilworth's  arm,  and 
pacing  with  neat  footsteps  at  his  side. 

G.  G.  at  home,  thinking  of  all  the  fine 
things  he  might  have  said,  cursing  him- 
self for  an  ass,  finally  ate  a  cold  and 
solitary  meal,  for  the  captain  did  not 
appear. 

"No  use  waiting  for  him,"  G.  G.  told 
Ann;  "he  must  have  stayed  for  dinner 
at  Mr.  Dilworth's." 

George  Gale  was  awe-struck  at  such 
behavior  on  his  uncle's  part.  "Talk 
about  courage!"  he  said  to  himself — 
"those  perfectly  strange  ladies!"  Then 
he  had  a  sudden  unpleasant  thought: 
Mrs.  Wharton  was  not  quite  a  strange 
lady  to  his  uncle.  "Can't  be  he'll  make 
up  to  her  again,  now?"  G.  G.  thought; 
for,  of  course,  like  everybody  else  in  Old 
Chester,  the  captain's  nephew  knew 
what  had  happened  in  the  unregenerate 
days. 

When  Jim  got  home,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, he  found  George  sitting  out  in  the 
arbor  in  the  garden,  with  coffee  cold  in 
the  pot  on  a  little  table  beside  him;  it 
was  very  pleasant  there  in  the  arbor, 
with  the  sunshine  sifting  through  the 
yellowing  grape-leaves,  and  the  clusters 
of  ripening  Isabellas  within  reach  of  one's 
hand;  G.  G.  could  see  the  glint  of  the 
river  in  the  distance,  and  the  air  was 
sweet  with  heliotrope  blossoming  under 
the  dining-room  windows;  but  in  spite 


22 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


of  his  surroundings,  George  Gale  looked 
distinctly  unhappy.  When  Jim  came 
tramping  into  the  arbor,  G.  G.  gave  him 
a  keen  and  anxious  glance. 

"You  scoundrel!"  said  the  captain; 
"what  did  you  cut  and  run  for?  I  be- 
lieve you'd  rather  face  a  cannon  than  a 
pretty  woman!" 

"She  is  handsome,"  G.  G.  conceded, 
sadly. 

"So  I  have  to  do  your  work  for  you," 
Jim  continued;  "yes,  she's  darned 
pretty.  And,  for  a  wonder,  neither  a 
fool  nor  a  vixen.  In  my  day,  a  pretty 
girl  was  either  one  or  the  other." 

"Oh,"  said  G.  G.,  brightening;  "you 
are  referring  to  Miss  Brown?" 

"Lord!"  Jim  protested,  "did  you 
think  I  was  training  my  guns  on  the 
aunt?  The  niece  will  never  have  her 
looks,  though." 

Again  George's  brow  furrowed.  "She's 
got  her  claws  on  him,"  he  thought. 

"You  are  gone  on  the  niece,  hey?" 
said  the  captain;  "I  know  the  symp- 
toms when  I  see  'em!" 

"Why,  no,  sir;  oh  no,  sir,"  G.  G. 
stammered;  "not  at  all,  sir." 

"Now,"  said  the  captain,  pulling  his 
goatee,  and  paying  no  attention  to  the 
denial,  "you've  got  to  get  to  work!  They 
are  only  going  to  be  here  a  month.  I 
guess  that's  all  Tom  can  stand  of  her. 
How  merciful  Providence  was  to  me. 
G.  G.,  I  owe  you  much." 

George's  face  cleared.  "I  guess  she 
won't  catch  him,"  he  thought,  hopefully. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  what  you 
have  done  in  the  month  they've  been 
here?"  said  the  captain.  "Have  you 
attacked  in  front,  or  deployed,  or  just 
laid  siege?" 

G.  G.  thought  of  the  weather  and 
blushed.    "I — I — really — " 

"Now  listen,"  said  the  captain;  "I 
understand  such  matters,  or  I  did — in 
the  days  of  my  unregeneracy.  You 
don't,  and  I  guess  you  never  will;  but 
that's  no  excuse,  sir,  for  the  way  you 
behaved  this  morning!  A  man  that 
slights  a  young  lady  ought  to  be  booted. 
Well;  you  must  see  the  aunt — do  you 
understand  ?  And  make  yourself  agree- 
able to  her!  Flattery,  which  is  a  judi- 
cious disregard  of  truth,  will  put  her  on 
your  side.  Not  that  you'll  have  much 
difficulty.    'If  the  court  knows  itself, 


which  it  think  it  do,'  I  guess  she'll  be 
only  too  glad  to  get  that  gentle  creature 
off  her  hands." 

"But — :"  said  G.  G.,  red  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair. 

"Darn  it!"  said  the  captain,  sharply, 
"what  do  you  want?  Isn't  she  good 
enough  for  you?  What  are  you  waiting 
for?  An  oil  princess?  See  here,  George, 
if  I  caught  you  playing  with  that  young 
lady's  feelings,  or  lacking  in  respect — " 

"I  have  the  greatest  possible  respect! 
Only  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
she  has  the  slightest — " 

"Make  her  have  the  'slightest';  make 
her  have  the  'greatest,'  too.  Make  love, 
my  boy,  make  love!" 

"I  don't  know  how,"  G.  G.  said,  with 
agitation. 

"We'll  call  on  'em  to-morrow  after- 
noon," his  uncle  declared;  "and  you 
watch  me  with  her.  I  know  the  ropes — 
though  it's  some  time  since  I  worked 
'em.  I'll  show  you  how  to  do  it;  I  un- 
derstand the  sex." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  G.  G. 

When  they  made  their  call,  George 
watched  the  handsome,  elderly  man  at- 
tentively. If  that  was  love-making,  it 
was  simple  enough — it  consisted  in  look- 
ing hard  at  the  little,  quiet  girl,  who  wore 
a  buff  cross-barred  muslin  dress,  sprin- 
kled over  with  brown  rosebuds;  bending 
toward  her;  lowering  his  voice  when 
he  spoke  to  her;  and  most  of  all,  in  com- 
plimenting her.  Those  compliments 
made  G.  G.'s  flesh  creep!  How  could  he 
ever  tell  a  girl  that  "her  cheek  put  the 
rose  to  shame"?  that  he  "did  not  know 
whether  she  had  spoken  or  a  bird  had 
sung"  ?  "What  an  absurd  thing  to  say," 
G.  G.  reflected;  "of  course  he  knows. 
I  wonder  if  she  likes  things  like  that? 
I  don't  believe  she  does,  she  looks  so 
sensible." 

The  fact  was,  Miss  Nettie  did  not  care 
much  for  the  captain's  old-fashioned  and 
ponderous  politeness,  but  she  cared  for 
him;  for  his  handsome  face,  his  flashing 
dark  eyes,  his  grand  manner.  There  is 
a  moment — a  very  fleeting  moment — 
when  youth  feels  the  fascination  of  age. 
The  boy  feels  it  at  nineteen;  it  is  then 
that  he  falls  in  love  with  the  lady  who 
might  have  dandled  him  on  her  knee;  a 
girl  experiences  it  at  about  twenty-one, 
when  worldly  wisdom  is  dazzlingly  at- 


"TURN 

tractive.  The  handsome  man  of  fifty, 
or  even  sixty,  provided  he  is  blase 
enough,  can  bring  the  color  into  a  girl's 
face  and  quicken  the  beating  of  her 
heart  much  more  successfully  than  the 
boy  of  her  own  age.  It  works  the  other 
way  round,  too:  Youth  is  a  beautiful 
thing!  How  age  lingers  beside  it,  cower- 
ing over  the  upspringing  flame  to  warm 
its  thin  and  shriveled  hands!  Not  that 
either  Jim  Williams  or  Mrs.  Wharton 
were  very  old,  and  certainly  they  were 
not  thin  and  shriveled;  but  George  Gale 
and  the  little  girl  in  brown  were  warm 
with  life. 

G.  G.  would  have  preferred  to  watch 
the  glow  in  the  girlish  face;  but  he 
obeyed  orders,  and  talked  to  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton. He  was  so  conscious  of  his  own 
part  in  the  broken  romance  of  her  life 
that  he  was  more  than  usually  speech- 
less; but  she  helped  him  very  much — 
she  listened  so  respectfully,  she  asked  his 
opinions  so  simply,  she  was  so  relieved 
to  be  told  this  or  that;  ''people  are  so 
ignorant,  you  know,  Mr.  Gale.  I  should 
think  you  would  feel  it,  living  in  a  place 
like  Old  Chester,  where  you  have  so  few 
equals. 

Miss  Netty,  listening  to  Captain 
Williams,  was  thinking,  just  as  G.  G. 
was  thinking,  of  the  days  when  the  old 
gentleman  had  made  love  to  her  aunt: 
"How  could  he  love  aunty!"  she  said  to 
herself;  "He's  so  nice." 

If  the  captain  or  the  widow  made  any 
impression  on  either  of  the  two  young 
creatures,  it  was  not  in  the  way  they 
supposed.  The  boy  and  the  girl  were 
entirely  impervious  to  the  middle-aged 
flattery  expended  upon  them;  they 
merely  felt  the  appeal  of  life  that  has 
been  lived.  In  the  brief  moment  of 
farewells,  each  told  the  other,  shyly, 
how  wonderful  their  respective  relations 
were.  But  neither  told  the  other  how 
wonderful  they  were  themselves. 

As  uncle  and  nephew  walked  home, 
Jim  with  a  confident  and  springing  step, 
G.  G.  keeping  up  as  best  he  might,  the 
ladies  were  the  only  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. 

"Mattie  is  the  same  old  humbug," 
Captain  Williams  said. 

"1  thought  the  aunt  a  very  agreeable 
lady,"  G.  G.  said,  politely. 

"Agreeable  grandmother!"   said  his 


ABOUT"  23 

uncle.  "Only  she  isn't  a  grandmother, 
more  shame  to  her!  No,  sir.  That 
sweet  creature  is  pining  to  have  you 
rescue  her.    I  bet  Mattie  beats  her." 

G.  G.  was  horrified  into  momentary 
speechlessness;  then  he  said,  boldly, 
"You  are  not  very  gallant,  sir." 

"I  heard  that  about  twenty-five  years 
ago,"  said  the  captain.  "Well;  let  me 
be  a  warning  to  you;  don't  you  trifle 
with  Miss  Netty's  feelings!"  Then  he 
asked  G.  G.  when  he  was  going  to  pop? 
George  blushed  to  his  ears,  and  refused 
to  commit  himself. 

"Make  up  for  my  errors,  and  be  agree- 
able to  Mattie,"  said  Captain  Williams; 
"when  you've  soft-soaped  her  enough, 
ask  if  you  may  pay  your  addresses  to  the 
little  brown  niece." 

"Why  not  ask  the — the — young  lady 
herself?"  G.  G.  inquired,  simply. 

"Not  correct,"  said  Captain  Williams; 
"besides,  unless  you  flatter  Mattie,  and 
get  her  on  your  side,  she's  capable  of 
carrying  the  girl  ofF,  just  to  spite  me. 
She  hates  me,  as  the  devil  hates  holy 
water." 

George  grinned:  "She  may  be  a  devil, 
sir,  but  I  would  never  call  you  holy." 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  Jim. 

So  G.  G.  called  at  Tom  Dilworth's 
each  afternoon,  and,  as  long  as  the  frost 
spared  it,  took  with  him  a  big  bunch  of 
heliotrope  from  old  Ann's  garden  under 
the  dining-room  windows.  Acting  on 
the  captain's  advice,  he  presented  the 
bouquet  (so  far  as  he  could,  in  his  uncle's 
manner)  to  each  lady,  turn  about.  Some- 
times Jim  Williams  went  with  him,  and 
did  his  best  to  further  the  campaign  by 
telling  Miss  Netty  what  a  fine  fellow 
G.  G.  was. 

"I  should  think  he  would  be,  living 
with  you!"  Netty  said,  prettily.  On  the 
way  home  that  night,  Jim  twisted  his 
mustache,  and  said  that,  by  gad!  the  lit- 
tle witch  had  sense  as  well  as  heart. 

"You  can  see  she's  no  relation  of 
Mattie's.  Mattie  has  no  more  heart 
than  a  hollow  potato." 

"I  thought  it  was  you  who  were 
deficient  in  heart  in  the  days  of  your 
unregeneracy  ?"  G.  G.  said. 

"  I  was  all  heart,"  Jim  Williams  re- 
torted. "Talk  about  the  gentle  sex — 
do  you  remember  those  females  in  New 
Orleans?    Where  would  you  find  a  man 


24 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


who  would  behave  as  they  did  ?  No,  sir; 
I  would  rather  meet  a  tiger  than  a 
tigress,  any  day!"  Then  he  left  generali- 
zations: " Pop,  my  boy,  pop!  I  can  see 
she's  dead  in  love  with  you." 

G.  G.  glowed;  "Thank  you,  sir!"  he 
said. 

He  might  have  said  "thank  you" 
every  day,  for  the  captain  never  failed 
to  speak  some  encouraging  word  about 
his  suit.  Yet,  somehow,  when  it  came 
to  the  point  of  action,  G.  G.  quailed. 
He  was  not  afraid  that  Miss  Netty  would 
refuse  him;  they  had  hardly  spoken  to 
each  other,  but  the  free-masonry  of 
youth  had  given  him  information  on  that 
point  which  the  captain's  certainties 
only  corroborated.  No;  he  was  not 
afraid  of  being  rejected  when  he  asked; 
he  was  only  afraid — until  his  very  back- 
bone was  cold! — of  asking. 

"They  are  going  away  on  Monday," 
his  uncle  warned  him;  "you'll  lose  her 
yet!  Walk  home  with  her  to-morrow 
from  church,  and  pop!  George,  if  I 
thought  you  were  amusing  yourself  with 
this  young  lady,  I'd — " 

"Of  course  I'm  not,"  G.  G.  said, 
gruffly. 

"Then  stop  your  shilly-shallying," 
said  the  captain. 

G.  G.  set  his  teeth.  He  was  only  too 
anxious  to  stop  shilly-shallying. 

The  next  day  he  was  as  beautifully 
dressed  as  the  captain  himself,  and  when 
they  came  out  of  church  (where  he  had 
not  heard  one  word  of  Dr.  Lavendar's 
sermon)  he  kept  close  at  his  uncle's 
heels  until,  in  the  churchyard,  they 
joined  the  Dilworths.  Miss  Netty,  see- 
ing him  approach,  strayed  a  little  from 
the  graveled  path.  An  old  slate  tomb- 
stone, leaning  sidewise  in  the  deep  grass 
near  the  wall,  suddenly  seemed  to  inter- 
est her,  and  with  a  fleeting  glance  of  invi- 
tation over  her  shoulder,  she  wandered 
across  to  it,  listening  all  the  while  for  a 
pursuing  footstep.  Her  heart  was  beat- 
ing hard  as  she  stood  by  the  sunken 
green  cradle  of  the  old  grave,  reading 
with  unseeing  eyes  the  scarcely  deci- 
pherable inscription  on  a  lichen-mottled 
stone.  She  heard  the  hoped-for  step 
behind  her,  and  turned  a  glowing  face; 
her  lips  parted — then  closed  with  a  gasp. 
It  was  only  the  captain,  who  had  come 
to  bring  his  quarry  to  George.  There 


was  something  in  the  child's  sweet  be- 
traying eyes  and  the  sudden  crimson 
flag  in  her  cheeks  that  touched  Jim 
Williams  inexpressibly  and  made  him 
angry,  both  at  once. 

"I'll  boot  that  boy  if  he  doesn't  come 
up  to  the  scratch!"  he  said  to  himself; 
then  he  told  Miss  Netty  that  the  Dil- 
worths were  waiting  for  her;  "and  so 
is  my  nephew;  the  boy  has  lost  his 
heart,  and  I'm  afraid  his  head  has  gone 
with  it,  for  he  has  left  me  to  escort  you." 

But  before  the  captain  and  Netty 
caught  up  with  the  others,  G.  G.  found 
himself  pacing  along  beside  good,  dull 
Mrs.  Dilworth.  So  there  was  nothing 
for  the  captain  to  do  but  stride  off 
with  Miss  Netty  on  his  arm.  Twice  did 
Jim  Williams  look  over  his  shoulder  to 
urge  his  nephew  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 
"Why  in  thunder  doesn't  he  step  up, 
and  give  me  a  chance  to  fall  back?"  he 
thought  to  himself;  "I  can't  go  and 
leave  her  here,  unattended,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street!"  Finally,  in  despair, 
he  paused  and  called  out:  "George,  I 
wish  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Dilworth.  You 
come  and  escort  Miss  Netty!" 

G.  G.,  making  some  stammering  apol- 
ogies to  Mrs.  Dilworth,  and  throwing 
a  whispered  "Thank  you,  sir!"  at  his 
uncle,  stepped  up  and  offered  Miss  Netty 
a  trembling  arm.  She  took  it  prettily, 
but  the  ardent  moment  by  the  lichen- 
mottled  grave-stone  had  passed,  and 
Netty  was  as  taciturn  as  G.  G.  himself. 
They  walked  to  the  Dilworths'  gate  in 
blank  silence.  There,  waiting  for  her 
hosts,  Miss  Netty  said,  with  a  little  effort : 

"Your  uncle  is  wonderful!  He  was 
telling  me  such  interesting  stories  of  the 
war;  he  said  you  were  very  brave." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  be  brave  in  war," 
said  poor  G.  G.  Then  they  were  silent 
until  the  others  came  up.  Just  as  they 
arrived  Netty,  scarlet  to  her  little  ears, 
burst  out: 

"I  hope  the  Dilworth  girls  will  write 
to  me  and  tell  me  all  the  Old  Chester 
news.  I  shall  write  to  Mary — and  give 
her  my  address." 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  G.  G.  said,  pas- 
sionately. They  looked  at  each  other, 
and  looked  away — breathless.  ...  If 
only  the  Dilworth  family  and  Mrs. 
Wharton  and  the  captain  had  not  ar- 
rived at  that  particular  moment!  .  .  . 


"TURN  ABOUT" 


25 


"Well!"  said  Jim  Williams,  as  soon  as 
he  and  his  nephew  had  turned  toward 
home;  "did  you?" 

"How  could  I?"  poor  George  retorted. 
"You  never  gave  me  any  chance!" 

The  captain  was  dumfounded.  "/ 
didn't  give  you  a  chance?  I?  Why, 
confound  you,  I  held  on  to  her  by  main 
force  till  you  could  come  up  and  get  her 
— and  I  had  to  call  you  at  the  last  min- 
ute. You  stuck  to  Amelia  Dilworth  like 
a  porous  plaster!  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  didn't  say  one  word — " 

"Oh  yes!"  George  broke  in;  "yes; 
I  did — speak.  She  said  she  would  send 
Mary  Dilworth  her  address,  and  I 
s-said — " 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  said — why,  I  said, ' Th-thank  you/  " 

"You  said  'thank  you'!  Well,  I 
vow,  of  all  the  donkeys!"  The  captain 
was  ready  to  swear  with  impatience. 
"'Thank  you,'  to  a  girl  who  was  waiting 
— waiting,  I  tell  you! — to  have  you  say 
'Will  you?'  George,  look  here;  you  are 
playing  with  that  girl's  feelings!" 

"I'm  no  such  thing!"  George  Gale 
said,  with  answering  anger.  "I  meant 
to  pay  my  addresses  this  morning,  but, 
as  I  say,  you — " 

"Oh  yes,  blame  me!  blame  me!'  the 
captain  broke  in;  "you  haven't  the 
spunk  of  a  tom-cat.  I  tell  you,  rather 
than  have  that  child  slighted,  I'll  marry 
her  myself."  His  burst  of  anger  was 
sharp  enough  to  put  an  end  to  G.  G.'s 
stammering. 

"I  can  manage  my  own  affairs,  thank 
you."  G.  G.'s  temper  was  not  as  quick 
as  his  uncle's,  but  it  was  more  lasting. 
Jim  always  yielded  first,  but  he  had  to 
grovel  a  little  before  George  softened. 

"Darn  it,  G.  G.  I  didn't  mean  that 
you  were  not  behaving  properly." 

Silence. 

"Of  course  I  know  you  are  a  white 
man,  but  I — " 

"But  you  thought  I  wasn't?" 

"I  didn't  think  anything  of  the  kind! 
Only  I  don't  want  to  see  that  little  thing 
disappointed." 

"She  sha5  n't  be  disappointed,"  George 
assured  him,  briefly. 

The  captain  was  relieved  to  be  for- 

[to  be  c 


given,  but  he  still  scolded:  "You've  lost 
your  chance.  I'll  never  take  the  trouble 
to  make  a  match  for  you  again!" 

Of  course  his  determination  did  not 
last  twenty-four  hours.  When  the  ladies 
went  fluttering  out  of  Old  Chester  on 
the  Monday  morning  stage  he  was  al- 
ready planning  what  had  best  be  done. 

"You  must  go  after  'em,  my  young 
Lochinvar.  No;  I  won't  go  with  you. 
I've  done  my  best,  but  it  seems  I  didn't 
give  satisfaction.  You  must  hoe  your 
own  potato-patch — and  you  can  go  and 
see  the  condensers  at  the  same  time. 
The  largest  size  is  my  choice.  You  must 
go  after  'em,  George.  You  must  take 
to-morrow's  stage." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  G.  G.  said,  ner- 
vously. 

However,  things  moved  slowly  in  Old 
Chester;  Mary  Dilworth  did  not  learn 
Netty's  address  for  a  fortnight;  it  was 
three  days  later  before  G.  G.  heard  it, 
and  another  three  before  he  "came  out 
of  the  West."  When  he  did,  it  was  a 
great  experience  to  both  men;  the  cap- 
tain was  as  excited  as  if  he  were  a  match- 
making mother  sending  a  girl  into  the 
matrimonial  market.  Poor  G.  G.  was 
fairly  dazed  with  instructions:  he  must 
do  that;  he  mustn't  do  this;  most  of 
all,  he  must  remember  to  invite  Mattie 
to  stay  at  their  house  before  the  wed- 
ding. "She'll  like  that,"  said  Jim; 
"she'll  save  money  on  it,  and  she'll  think 
she  can  catch  me  again." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  said  G.  G.,  under 
his  breath,  listening  to  the  endless  de- 
tails of  etiquette  which  had  been  comme 
ilfaut  in  the  day  when  the  captain  went 
courting  —  and  how  successfully!  For 
Mattie  had  "tumbled  at  the  first  gun," 
Jim  told  his  nephew.  .  .  .  If  G.  G.  only 
followed  his  directions,  Miss  Netty  could 
not  possibly  withstand  him. 

"Besides,"  said  Jim,  "as  I've  told  you 
a  thousand  times,  she  has  no  desire  to 
withstand  you.  'If  the  court  knows 
itself,  which  it  think  it  do,'  she'll  tumble 
at  the  first  pop." 

"  Thank  you,  sir!"  said  G.  G.,  grinning 
with  happiness. 

And  so  he  set  forth  upon  his  quest  for 
a  bride. 

NCLUDED.] 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Aries 

BY  RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


il^^'^SBlfiT  js  marvelous  how  won- 
f^^^^^m'  derfully  my  country  is 
0  "T  l2j  beloved!"  said  a  French- 
M  I  W%  man  somewhere  in  a 
Jl  A  WM  book  I  have  read,  and 
y^v,  y -^mj^ji  the  sentiment  is  one 
_5^S(PS^3  that  is  growing  apace 
in  the  modern  world,  particularly  among 
Anglo-Saxons,  who,  as  they  become  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  France  and  French- 
men, find  it,  in  Villon's  words,  more 
and  more  inconceivable  to  "wish  evil 
to  the  realm  of  France."  The  debt  of 
the  human  spirit  to  her  is  so  great  in  so 
many  ways,  the  romance  of  her  past  is 
so  inspiring,  and  the  radiant  energy  of 
her  eternal  youth  so  magnetic.  In  no 
country  is  the  inevitable  prose  of  life  so 
successfully  transacted  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  beauty,  nowhere  else  shall 
you  find  "efficiency"  of  so  high  an  or- 
der hand  in  hand  with  a  temper  so  es- 
sentially poetic.  Not  surely  since  Greece 
has  there  been  so  practical  and  so  poetic 
a  nation,  a  nation  at  once  a  dream  and 
a  reality.  How  strangely,  even  magi- 
cally, the  last  word  of  "modernity" 
blends  there  with  all  the  still  living 
voices  of  the  past;  and,  for  those  who 
would  find  it,  dreamland  still  exists 
there,  side  by  side  with  the  traffic  of 
the  passing  hour.  And  the  very  lan- 
guage of  France,  is  it  not  at  once  an 
instrument  incomparably  precise  and 
flexible  for  all  the  uses  of  the  world,  and 
yet  a  haunted  thing? 

To  us  at  least  it  seemed  that  the  gate 
of  ivory  might  well  be  the  port  of  Mar- 
seilles, sea-threshold  of  the  fairyland  of 
Provence,  and  thither  we  set  sail  from 
New  York  in  a  white  February,  planning 
to  take  the  dreamer's  road  with  stick 
and  knapsack  through  that  old  realm  of 
poets  and  kings.  Good  Americans,  we 
were  proverbially  glad  to  find  ourselves, 
at  the  end  of  even  so  short  a  journey  as 
the  gangway,  already  in  France,  sur- 
rounded by  French  voices,  soothingly 
enveloped  by  French  manners — O!  so 


comforting,  at  all  events  for  a  change — 
as  completely  plunged  on  a  sudden  into 
France  on  that  French  ship  as  though 
we  had  been  swiftly  shanghaied  across 
the  sea  by  some  Arabian  jinn,  though 
the  visible  world  of  Brooklyn  still  existed 
yet  a  little  while  for  our  eyes. 

But  soon  the  sea  and  the  wind  took 
us — that  wind  blowing,  as  in  Drayton's 
ballad,  fair  for  France.  Others  on  board 
were,  doubtless,  on  other  business.  We 
have  but  to  speak  for  ourselves,  and 
we,  being  on  dream  business,  had  but 
thoughts  and  preoccupations  proper  to 
our  errand.  The  French  flag  fluttering 
at  our  stern  spoke  to  us  but  of  the  gal- 
lantry of  old  French  wars,  the  very 
winds  seemed  to  blow  perfumed  cadences 
out  of  Ronsard  and  Charles  d'Orleans, 
our  captain  and  his  kindly  crew  were  for 
us  only  countrymen  of  Bernard  de  Ven- 
tadour  and  Alexandre  Dumas.  The  very 
ship  herself,  as  she  swayed  and  creaked, 
seemed  to  be  humming  to  herself  in 
French.  We  were  sailing  to  France!  and 
our  hearts  sang  with  the  thought — Eng- 
lish words,  indeed,  after  this  fashion,  to 
a  French  rhythm: 

"  So  many  dreams  had  gone  astray, 

Yet,  dreaming  still,  we  said — who  knows 
If  there  remains  not  yet  a  way 
To  find  the  ever-living  rose, 
The  land  that  never  rains  nor  snows, 
All  blossom-song,  and  blossom-dance: 
We  have  dreamed  much,  the  good  God 
knows — 

We  cannot  dream  too  much  of  France." 

The  charm  we  had  proposed  to  our- 
selves in  walking  through  Provence  was 
chiefly  this:  that  only  when  we  chose 
would  it  be  necessary  to  walk  in  the 
present  century.  We  had  our  choice  of 
so  many  other  centuries.  We  were  to 
walk  in  the  track  of  Caesar's  wars,  or 
along  the  singing  highways  with  the 
lordly  troubadours,  who  were  wont  to 
pass  from  castle  to  castle  with  retinues 
as  of  princes.   Our  road  was  the  road  to 


Marseilles — Sea-threshold  to  the  Fairyland  of  Provence 


yesterday,  and  our  journey  was  in  the 
present,  only  when,  as  we  were  so  often 
to  find,  the  road  of  yesterday  and  of 
to-day  were  still  one  and  the  same. 

Thus  when  we  landed  at  Marseilles  it 
was  not  the  Marseilles  of  to-day  that 
we  chose  to  see,  but  the  Marseilles  of 
those  old  Phocaeans  whose  adventurous 
barks  were  still  moored  for  us  in  the 
"Old  Port"  of  their  building,  barks  that 
more  than  two  thousand  years  ago  had 
brought  the  Greek  gods,  Greek  beauty, 
and  Greek  commerce  to  this  earliest 
outpost  of  ancient  light;  or  the  Mar- 
seilles of  which  Lazarus  was  taken  to  be 
the  bishop,  and  on  whose  deserted  tomb 
we  gazed  with  eyes  of  unquestioning 
faith  in  the  dramatic  crypt  of  St.  Vic- 
tor's embattled  church;  or  the  Mar- 
seilles of  Louis  XIV.'s — and  Dumas' — 
great  military  architect,  Vauban,  whose 
grim,  business-like  fort  still  tremendous- 
ly guards  the  entrance  to  the  harbor; 
or  the  Marseilles  that  had  sent  that 
battalion  singing  up  through  France  to 
the  gates  of  the  Bastille.  Of  that  mem- 
ory the  redoubtable,  many-petticoated, 
sabot -shod  fish -women,  industriously 
knitting  by  their  fish-stalls  as  of  old, 
seemed  to  us  rather  disquieting  survivals, 

Vol..  CXXVIII.— No.  763.-4 


particularly  as  we  recalled  the  terrible 
fish-wife  in  "The  Reds  of  the  Midi,"  by 
Felix  Gras.  With  the  fascinating  fish- 
stalls  of  Marseilles  we  did  indeed  make 
glad  descent  for  a  while  into  the  present. 
Such  a  fantastic  array  of  shell -fish  is 
surely  not  to  be  found  anywhere  else  in 
the  world — uncanny  varieties,  too,  sug- 
gesting deep-sea  diablerie  affrighting  to 
the  imagination  as  possible  food.  But 
the  fish-stalls  of  Marseilles  are  famous 
through  France,  and  French  gourmets 
make  pilgrimages  to  Marseilles  from  all 
parts,  merely  to  eat  its  enchanted  fish. 

But  Marseilles,  as  I  said,  was  only  our 
threshold.  We  were  eager  to  be  about 
in  the  fabled  country  beyond.  Yet  there, 
even  in  that  great  bustling  city  of  mod- 
ern ships  and  modern  cargoes,  it  was 
strange  to  find  that  men  were  not  so  pre- 
occupied with  the  things  of  the  day  as 
to  forget  that  they  were  citizens,  too,  of 
one  of  the  classic  realms  of  the  imagina- 
tion. They  were  ordinary  business  men, 
yet  they  were  eager  to  proclaim  their 
birthright,  as  kinsmen  to  a  race  of  poets, 
proud  to  have  even  a  far-away  share  in 
the  tradition  of  Provencal  song. 

Said  our  innkeeper  to  us,  when  we 
told  him  of  our  projected  journey,  "Of 


28 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


course  you  will  not  fail  to  see  our  great 
poet,  Mistral!"  And  he  blew  a  kiss  on 
his  fingers,  French  fashion,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Maillane. 

To  us  this  was  a  matter  of  great  won- 
der and  comfort.  Think,  we  said  to  our- 
selves, of  an  American  innkeeper  en- 
thusiastically saying  to  the  newly  ar- 
rived tourist  from  Europe:  "Of  course 
you  will  not  fail  to  see  our  Mr.  Howells!" 

Ah!  no  indeed,  we  had  not  "dreamed 
too  much  of  France!" 

This  was  our  first  indication  of  that 
affectionate  worship,  one  might  almost 
say  idolatry,  with  which  the  whole  of 
the  Midi  regards  Frederic  Mistral,  an 
inspiring  recognition  of  which  I  shall 
have  more  to  say  later  on.  But,  as  all 
the  world  knows,  there  is  yet  another 
"mistral"  holding  rule  in  Provence,  one 
very  different  in  its  nature  from  the 
gentle,  sun-bright  poet  of  Mireio,  that 
savage  north  wind  which  is  the  one  pres- 
ence in  Provence  that  makes  it  only  just 
fall  short  of  being  an  earthly  para- 
dise. With  that  we  had  first  to  make  ac- 
quaintance, and,  as  it  raved  and  bullied 
and  tore  over  the  old  roofs,  and  blinded 
the  streets  with  stinging  dust,  we  smiled 


to  think  how  we  had  laughed  to  scorn 
certain  cynical  warnings  we  had  received 
of  its  uncomfortable  power.  And  while 
it  blew  one  morning,  I  took  up  a  paper 
and  read  under  date  of  February  22d 
this  telegram  from  Perpignan:  "Heavy 
rain,  wind,  and  snow  -prevail  in  Rousillon; 
trains  and  mails  are  delayed  in  conse- 
quence." And  again,  this  from  Carcas- 
sonne: "Snow  has  been  falling  again  in 
great  abundance  since  this  morning  in 
Carcassonne  and  all  the  surrounding  coun- 
try." This,  of  all  places,  from  Carcas- 
sonne! 

The  lines  of  my  ballad  came  back  to 
me  edged  with  irony: 

"The  land  that  never  rains  nor  snows, 
All  blossom-song,  and  blossom-dance." 

Yet,  after  all,  what  were  Villon  with- 
out his  "snows  of  yester-year,"  or  Ver- 
laine  without  that  rain  weeping  over 
the  roofs  of  the  town?  So  that  great 
reconciler,  literature,  made  it  seem  all 
right,  and  it  still  remained  true  that  we 
could  not  "dream  too  much  of  France." 

At  the  end  of  a  day's  walk  through  a 
storied  country,  where  the  still,  sad  music 


Mayoralty  House  and  Harbor  Front— Marseilles 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  ARLES 


29 


of  antiquity  has  ac- 
companied one  all  the 
day  through  a  land- 
scape whose  very  face 
seems  at  once  seared 
and  spiritualized 
with  memories,  while 
it  is  still  abloom  with 
the  youngest  of  al- 
mond blossom,  where 
the  mind  and  eye  alike 
have  all  day  long  been 
living  in  two  worlds  so 
far  away  from  each 
other,  yet  such 
strangely  close  com- 
panions, set  dream- 
ing alike  by  some  shat- 
tered castle  against 
the  sky-line,  or  by 
the  first  shoots  of  the 
young  vine,  or  the 
sweet,  lonely  notes  of 
the  black-cap  telling 
in  a  world  so  old  of  a 
world  that  never  grows 
old — at  the  end  of  a 
day  thus  walked 
through,  as  one  un- 
slings  one's  knapsack, 
one  wonders  what  it 
shall  be  that  we  can 
tell  another  of  the 
meaning  of  the  day. 

Surely  it  will  not 
avail  to  unload  a  pack 
of  antiquarian  detail 
and  " tourist"  infor- 
mation, all  to  be  found 
duly  written  down  in  the  proper  places. 
All  such  knowledge  should  first  be  taken 
into  the  mind,  and  then  quietly  assimi- 
lated by  imagination,  only  enough  con- 
sciously remaining  in  the  memory  to  give 
a  temper  to  one's  thought.  The  imagi- 
native pedestrian  must  not  allow  anti- 
quaries and  topographers  to  become  his 
masters.  They  are  only  the  much-to-be 
thanked  servants  and  aids  to  his  imagi- 
nation. Mistral's  poems  make  the  in- 
spired guide-book  to  Provence;  and,  if 
you  can  overcome  your  dreary  school- 
boy memories,  it  is  amusing  to  dip  into 
Caesar's  Commentaries,  and  to  see  how 
that  dusty  penance  of  youth,  in  the 
interpretative  atmosphere  of  Provencal 
highways,  literally  blossoms  like  a  rose, 


Exterior  of  the  Abbey 

and  the  Allobroges,  and  other  such  mys- 
terious, darkly  apprehended  acquaint- 
ance of  boyhood,  become  living  flesh  and 
blood. 

No!  At  the  end  of  a  day's  tramp 
one's  mind  is  drowsily  filled  with  a  mul- 
titude of  impressions,  but  even  to  one- 
self one  cannot  tell  them  all  over.  Maybe 
one's  note-book  is  dark  with  scribbled 
details,  yet  as  one  sits  in  the  evening 
revolving  them  all  (going  over,  so  to 
say,  the  day's  "bag"  of  memories)  it  will 
more  than  likely  seem  that  they  have 
all  been  resolved  into  a  music  of  unde- 
fined, many-colored  thought,  and  that 
the  one  entry  in  our  note-book  that 
counts  for  most  with  us  is  some  gathered 
wayside  flower.    From  the  day's  wan- 


« 


Spreading  a  great  stone  Silence  all  about  it 


dering  there  has  resulted  a  sort  of  honey 
of  the  mind — nothing  more  definite  than 
that;  yet,  if  I  truly  conceive  the  purpose 
of  such  travel,  result  sufficiently  definite. 
Still,  how  shall  one  convey  that  delicate, 
subtle  compound  to  another! 

A  friend  of  mine  unusually  susceptible 
to  the  evocative  power  of  perfumes  car- 
ries her  memories  of  California  in  the 
form  of  a  silken  pillow  filled  with  leaves 
and  blossoms  gathered  in  that  land  of 
color  and  fragrance,  and  she  has  but 
to  lay  her  head  upon  it  to  visualize,  by 
the  aid  of  its  aromatic  magic,  all  the 
beauty  and  strangeness  of  scenes  that 
volumes  of  accurate  description  could 
never  have  captured.  He  who  would 
write  of  Provence  may  well  despairingly 
desire  to  make  of  his  words  some  such 
enchanted  pomander.  For  himself,  as  I 
have  said,  his  best  note-book  may  well 
be  a  sort  of  symbolic  herbarium.  This 
olive  leaf  and  this  almond  blossom  will 


make  a  picture  for  him  of  the  wide  plain 
that,  once  a  sea  stretching  between 
Marseilles  and  Aries,  is  now  a  vast  pat- 
tern of  olive  and  almond  orchards,  the 
sad,  burned  foliage  of  the  olive  that  seems 
born  old  and  never  seems  young,  blended 
decoratively  with  the  fairy-like  mauve 
of  the  almond  blossoms  in  endless  repe- 
tition. This  cypress-cone  will  tell  of 
those  solemn  walls  of  cypress-trees  that 
everywhere  in  Provence  emphasize  the 
general  sadness  of  the  landscape,  natural 
screens  whose  purpose  is  to  protect  the 
farms  and  vineyards  from  the  mistral, 
whose  force  has  given  a  southern  slant 
even  to  their  dark  strength.  This  yellow 
flower,  a  sort  of  gorse,  this  blue  flower,  a 
sort  of  heather,  will  tell  of  the  wonderful 
ivory-white  roads  stretching,  hushed  and 
spectral,  on  and  on  past  farm-houses  of 
ancient  stone,  walled  about  like  for- 
tresses, here  and  there  a  silver  lane  of 
plane-trees  leading  up  to  their  arched 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  ARLES 


31 


gateways;  here  and  there  in  the  dis- 
tance a  russet-roofed  town,  tragically 
ancient,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  rocky  scarp  up  which  it  clambers 
and  huddles,  with  a  crown  of  church 
towers  and  great  bells  silhouetted  against 
the  sky. 

But  along  with  these  visible  memo- 
ries will  be  evoked,  too,  the  atmosphere 
of  retrospective  thought  in  which  they 
floated  for  us,  the  luminous  ether  of  an- 
tiquity bathing  them  in  a  spiritual  radi- 
ance; for,  inevitably,  the  actual  solid 
earth  of  Provence  seems  even  less  figura- 
tively than  in  reality  a  palimpsest,  script 
overlaid  upon  script  by  race  after  race, 
century  after  century:  Phoenician,  Pho- 
caean,  Greek,  Roman,  Visigoth,  Saracen, 
Norman — here  some  broken  words  of 
pre  -  Christian  times  emerging  clear 
through  the  half-efFaced  writing  of  a 
later  day,  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone 
and  the  Mediterranean  for  its  earliest 
caligraphers.  The  eye  and  the  mind 
co-operate  in  a  vision  which  is  at  once 


material  and  immaterial,  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  look  at  the  wide  plain  or  the 
far  hills,  or  the  streaming  white  road, 
without  thinking  of  Phoenician  galleys 
and  Roman  legions  and  barbarian  hosts. 
Here  is  nothing  young  that  was  not  long 
since  old,  and,  as  every  handful  of  its 
earth  contains  the  germinating  potency 
of  nature,  so  one  feels  too  that  it  is 
impregnated  with  the  living  soul  of  hu- 
man dream  and  deed.  And  in  Aries  is 
gathered  up,  as  in  some  solemn,  lovely 
flower,  all  the  evocative  perfume  of  the 
Provencal  past.  Some  places  are  like 
isolated  pages  of  the  past  torn  from 
their  context,  but  in  Aries  we  have  the 
whole  volume,  in  Aries  alone  is  concen- 
trated the  whole  long,  many-chaptered 
history  of  Provence.  It  is  written  in  a 
continuity  of  ancient  stone,  it  hangs  in 
its  atmosphere  as,  in  an  old  church,  seem 
to  hang  suspended  whole  centuries  of 
prayer — it  is  even  written  in  the  faces  of 
its  youngest  women. 

It  was  in  a  blended  twilight  and  moon- 


Ruins  of  the  Greek  Theater 


32 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


light  that  we  reached  Aries  and  seated 
ourselves,  pleasantly  weary,  outside  one 
of  the  half-dozen  somnolent  country 
cafes  that  greet  the  traveler  on  the  boule- 
vard that  fringes  with  comparative  mo- 
dernity the  eastern  side  of  the  town. 
There  was  a  great  stillness  in  the  air, 
and  a  sense  overcame  us,  too,  of  a  great 
sadness,  sadness  as  of  old,  old  music,  as 
we  sat  there,  with  a  curious  impression 
that  we  had  come  not  merely  to  a 
given  point  in  space,  but  had  actually 
arrived  at  a  place  awe-inspiringly  remote 
in  time,  that  our  day  or  two's  travel 
covered  a  distance  more  properly  repre- 
sented, not  by  so  many  kilometers  from 
Marseilles,  as  by  so  many  centuries  from 
the  year  and  day. 

Presently  we  became  aware  of  a  plain- 
tive, gathering  murmur,  blent  with  the 
wandering  tinkle  of  little  bells,  and,  look- 
ing out  along  the  road,  there  appeared 
a  cloud  of  dust  moving  slowly  toward  us. 
It  was  this  cloud  that  was  so  plaintively 
vocal,  and  soon,  in  the  half-light,  there 
emerged  at  its  head  a  tall  man  walking 
with  a  long  staff,  and  carrying  something 
under  his  arm,  and  now  too  there  was 
the  sound  of  a  multitude  of  soft  pattering 
feet.    It  was  a  shepherd  and  his  flock, 
and  soon  the  roadway  was  flooded  with 
a  warm  baaing  woolly  sea,  surging  in 
pathetic  sheep-like  fashion  at  the  heels 
of  a  tall  man,  and  gradually  subsiding 
to  a  halt  as  he  strode  toward  the  open 
door  of  the  cafe.    As  he  came  by  us,  he 
turned  aside  and  tenderly  revealed  to 
us  the  contents  of  his  bag — two  young 
lambs  thus  slung  over  his  shoulder,  their 
soft  heads  pushing  out  and  bleating 
under  his  caressing  hands.    He  seemed 
to  have  no  dog  to  assist  him,  and  when 
he  disappeared  indoors  in  search  of  his 
wine  the  flock  stood  around  patiently 
waiting,  as  though  quite  understanding 
his  errand.    It  was  all  curiously  dream- 
like and  far  away,  and  the  sound  of  the 
bells  and  the  lost,  lonely  bleating  seemed 
to  be  the  very  voice  of  the  twilight,  a 
part,  too,  of  the  ancestral  sadness  of  the 
time  and  place.  They,  too,  struck  a  note 
of  antiquity,  for  sheep  and  shepherds 
had  thus  come  along  the  road  even  when 
the  old  town  was  young.    So  the  flocks 
of  the  vast  hordes  of  the  Goth  had 
bleated   mournfully  centuries   ago,  as 
they  slowly  swept  along  the  banks  of 


the  Rhone  to  meet  the  legions  of  Marius. 
Is  there  indeed  anything  older  than  a 
shepherd  and  his  sheep? 

We  slept  that  night  in  a  hotel  into 
the  facade  of  which  are  built  two  col- 
umns with  part  of  a  pediment,  fragments 
of  the  ancient  forum  which  still  gives 
its  name  to  the  little  central  square  of 
the  town,  the  Place  de  Forum;  and,  as 
we  looked  from  our  windows  in  the 
morning,  the  first  sight  that  met  our 
eyes  was  a  statue  of  Frederic  Mistral, 
in  whose  idolized  person  the  ancient 
kingdom  of  Aries  may  be  said  literally 
to  survive,  for  if  ever  a  man  has  been 
spiritual  king  in  his  own  land,  that  man 
is  Mistral  in  Provence.     And  surely 
there  is  no  honor  or  love  that  Aries  can 
bring  him  that  he  has  not  abundantly 
won.    Its  history  is  the  sacred  theme  of 
his  loveliest  verse,  and  of  the  beauty  of 
its  women  he  has  been  the  lifelong  laure- 
ate.   Recently,  too,  he  made  it  the  gen- 
erous gift  of  his  Nobel  prize  of  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  founding  with  it  Le 
Museon  Arlaten,  or  "Palace  of  the  Feli- 
briges,"  wherein  is  stored  a  romantic 
treasure-trove  of  Provencal  relics,  and 
many  memorials  of  that "  Felibres  "  move- 
ment of  which  he  has  been  the  master 
spirit.   There  the  bibliophile  can  rejoice 
his  eyes  with  the  original  manuscript  of 
Mireio,  and  there  is  piously  preserved 
the  veritable  cradle  in  which  its  author 
was  rocked.    There,  too,  you  can  won- 
deringly  look  upon  the  golden  hair  of  the 
unknown  princess  of  Les  Baux  whose 
story  he  has  told,  a  story  I  shall  have  to 
recall  in  another  place.     But  of  the 
manifold  treasures  of  Aries  I  must  not 
even  begin  to  speak.    Something  like  a 
library  has  been  written  upon  Aries,  but 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  dis- 
tilled essence  of  it  all  is  to  be  found  in 
Mr.  T.  A.  Cook's  beautiful  Old  Provence. 
I  shall  do  well  if  I  persuade  the  reader 
to  seek  there  what  I  cannot  hope  to  give 
him.     Yet  nothing  but  a  great  poem 
could   adequately   express    the  lovely 
truth  of  Aries,  and  the  poem  would  need 
to  be  written  by  him  who  wrote  the 
"Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn." 

Rightly  to  suggest  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  one  stands  to-day  in  the  huge 
Roman  amphitheater,  looming  like  a 
work  of  giants  in  a  circle  of  neat, 
quaint  houses,  pierced   by  medievally 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  ARLES 


33 


narrow  but  exquisitely  clean  and  clois-  men  successively  filled  it  with  turbu- 
trally  quiet  streets,  spreading  a  great  lent  history.  In  the  ninth  century,  when 
stone  silence  all  about  it;  or  among  the  Provence  became  a  kingdom,  Aries  was 
beautiful  fragments  of  the  Greek  thea-  chosen  for  the  capital  of  its  kings.  No 
ter  close  by;  or,  again,  before  the  elabo-  less  a  person  than  Barbarossa  was 
rately  sculptured 
doorway  of  the  an- 
cient church  of  St. 
Trophime;  it  will  be 
well  to  set  down  a  few 
facts  of  the  history  of 
Aries,  each  one  of 
which  concentrates  a 
whole  world  of  roman- 
tic association. 

Aries  was  originally 
a  city  of  old  Gaul,  and 
because  in  those  early 
times  the  Mediterra- 
nean spread  all  about 
it — long  since  shrunk 
away,  owing  to  the 
delta-making  procliv- 
ities of  the  Rhone,  still 
swiftly  running  by  its 
western  wall — the  col- 
onizing Greeks  of 
Marseilles  made  it  one 
of  their  chief  outposts. 
When  Caesar  was  pre- 
paring to  attack  Mar- 
seilles, it  was  in  the 
dockyards  of  Aries 
that  he  built  his  ships 
— as  in  a  later  time 
English  ships  bound 
for  the  Crusades  tar- 
ried awhile  on  their 
eastern  voyage.  Here 
Caesar's  quaestor,  Ti- 
berius Claudius  Nero, 
stationed  his  sixth  le- 
gion. Here  Constan- 
tine  built  a  palace 
that  still  remains. 
Here  St.  Trophime 
brought  Christianity 
straight,  the  legend 
goes,  from  the  hands 
of  St.  Peter  himself,  building  in  the 
church  that  retains  his  name  an  oratory 
dedicated  to  that  Virgin  who  was  still 
alive!  Honorius  raised  it  to  the  dignity 
of  a  capital,  and  praised  it  in  exuberant 
Latin.  Ansonius  sang  of  it  as  "Gallula 
Roma" — the  Gallic  Rome.  Visigoths, 


The  sculptured  Doorway  of  the  ancient  Church  of  St.  Trophime 


Burgundians,  Ostrogoths,  and  French- 


crowned  in  its  St.  Trophime.  Four 
other  kings  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire 
were  crowned  there  also,  and  homage  for 
Aries  was  done  to  Henry  VI.  by  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion.  Later,  Aries  became  a 
republic  allied  to  the  other  sea  repub- 
lics of  Genoa,  Pisa,  and  Venice.  To  its 
beautiful  necropolis  of  Les  Alyscamps 


St.  Trophime — The  twelfth-century  Cloister 


the  bodies  of  unnumbered  great  ones 
were  brought  from  afar  for  burial,  as  to 
a  place  of  sanctity  unusually  distin- 
guished. And  here  in  the  seventeenth 
century  Greek  beauty  rose  from  its  grave 
in  the  form  of  a  "Venus,"  discovered  in 
the  ruins  of  the  Greek  theater,  that 
"Venus  of  Aries"  which  is  now  one  of 
the  noblest  treasures  of  the  Louvre — as 
to  this  day  the  Greek  type  of  beauty 
still  survives,  it  is  claimed,  in  the  beauty 
of  its  living  women. 

Well  may  Aries  lift  perhaps  the  proud- 
est head  among  the  cities  of  France,  and 
well  may  it  wear  that  air  of  distinguished 
sorrow  that  seems  to  pervade  its  very 
atmosphere. 

"Rome  dressed  thee  new,  City  of 
Aries,"  cries  Mistral  in  impassioned  cele- 
bration, "built  thee  true  with  white 
stones;  a  hundred  and  a  score  of  gates 
she  placed  before  thee  in  the  Amphi- 
theater; and  like  a  princess  of  the 
Empire,  thou  hadst  the  Circus  for  thy 
pleasure,  the  gorgeous  Aqueducts,  the 
Theater,  the  Hippodrome." 

To-day  still,  among  all  the  relics  of 


later  associations,  it  is  the  impression 
of  Rome  and  Greece  that  prevails. 
Later  races  have  not  "writ"  themselves 
"large"  as  they  have  done.  Smaller  and 
more  perishable  was  the  later  script, 
and  Aries  is  still  Greece  and  Rome  for 
all  the  rest,  Greek  even  the  faces  of  its 
women — the  old  Greek  type  mysteri- 
ously surviving  here  as  nowhere  else  in 
the  world:  so,  at  least,  has  attested  a 
chorus  of  panegyrists  such  as  beauty 
has  seldom  been  able  to  enlist  in  her 
service. 

Poets,  painters,  and  sculptors  seem  lit- 
erally to  have  gone  mad  over  the  beauty 
of  the  Arlesienne — Mistral  being  once 
more  the  arch-priest.  "I  tell  you,"  says 
he,  in  a  poem  entitled  "L'Arlatenco"  (the 
Arlesienne),  "and  do  not  doubt  it:  the 
young  girl  of  whom  I  speak  is  a  queen, 
for — she  is  but  twenty  and  she  comes 
from  Aries." 

One  curious  thing  about  this  survival 
of  the  Greek  type,  it  is  asserted,  is  that 
it  is  found  only  in  the  women.  For 
handsome  men  we  are  referred  to  Taras- 
con.    "Aries  for  the  women — Tarascon 


THE  VOICE 


for  the  men,"  goes  the  proverb.  And 
certainly  Aries  seems  to  have  taken  the 
praise  sufficiently  to  heart,  and,  indeed, 
if  it  is  not  ungracious  to  say  so,  with 
something  like  American  advertising  ge- 
nius made  the  most  of  its  reputation 
for  feminine  pulchritude.  Every  other 
shop  window  displays  photographs  of 
the  fair  Arlesienne,  and  even  toy-shops 
have  her  in  the  form  of  dolls,  and  con- 
fectioners in  the  form  of  candy.  If 
every  girl  in  Aries  should  regard  her- 
self as  a  re-embodiment  of  its  famous 
"Venus,"  she  could  hardly  be  blamed. 
But  such  adulation  has  its  dangerous 
side,  and  it  is  doubtless  a  little  hard  upon 
her  that  one  should  enter  Aries  with 
one's  expectations  raised  to  such  a  pitch 
by  poetic  panegyric  and  civic  advertise- 
ment. Beauty,  too,  notoriously  has  its 
bad  days,  and,  to  tell  the  truth  as  it 
came  to  me  with  fear  and  trembling,  I 
cannot  but  wonder  if  the  days  we  spent 
in  Aries  were  not  among  them.  We 
saw  many  faces  with  strong,  dark  eyes 
beneath  broad,  calm  brows,  framed  in 
striking  blue-black  hair,  but,  had  they 
not  been  crowned  with  the  pretty,  quaint 
Arlesian  head-dress,  and  had  not  the 
shoulders  beneath  been  draped  in  the 
traditional  lace  fichu,  and  the  form  in 
full,  dignified,  old  -  fashioned  skirts — 
well!  .  .  .  They  suggested  character, 


35 

dignity,  a  fine  seriousness — but  I  confess 
that  I  sought  in  vain  for  that  flawless 
Greek  profile;  and,  were  I  to  tell  the 
simple  American  truth,  I  would  say  that 
I  did  not  see  a  single  pretty  face!  Doubt- 
less the  word  "pretty"  condemns  one. 
Well,  I  mean  a  face  that  suddenly  lights 
up  a  street,  and  leaves  you  dreaming — 
such  faces  as  one  sees  by  the  hundreds 
on  Fifth  Avenue  or  Broadway  on  a  sum- 
mer afternoon.  Probably  my  taste  is  all 
at  fault,  and  probably,  too,  I  had  bad 
luck.  It  would  be  unfair  to  expect  every 
face  one  met,  even  in  Aries,  to  be  beau- 
tiful, and  doubtless  the  fairest  faces 
happened  to  be  indoors  or  were  in  some 
other  street.  Yet  I  am  forced  to  say 
that  I  couldn't  find  them  in  the  shop- 
windows,  either — perhaps  the  fairest 
Arlesiennes  are  too  dignified  to  be  pho- 
tographed— but  the  beauty  I  did  find 
was  in  the  faces  of  the  older  women.  It 
would  seem  to  be  becoming  to  the  Arle- 
sienne to  grow  old.  The  type  would 
seem  to  wear  well,  and  gather  beauty 
out  of  the  years.  One  beautiful  old  face 
I  shall  never  forget,  that  of  an  old  country 
woman  who  came  into  a  cafe  one  after- 
noon selling  some  knitted  wares.  Hers 
was  the  only  face  I  saw  in  Aries  which 
compelled  a  second  thought,  the  only 
one  of  which  I  would  have  liked  a 
picture. 


The  Voice 

BY  LOUISE  MORGAN  SILL 

O VOICE  that  strangely  sings  to  me, 
Bird  or  spirit,  or  what  you  are, 
The  world  can  very  lonely  be 
When  you  are  far. 

But  when  you  come,  and  suddenly 
My  soul  wakes  thrilling  to  your  call, 

There  is  no  lonely  world  for  me — 
You  fill  it  all. 


Vol.  CXXVIII  — No.  763—5 


The  Wrackham  Memoirs 


BY  MAY  SINCLAIR 


HE  publishers  told  you 
he  behaved  badly,  did 
they?  They  didn't 
know  the  truth  about 
the  Wrackham  Me- 
moirs. 
You  may  well  wonder 
how  Grevill  Burton  got  mixed  up  with 
them ?  how  he  ever  could  have  known 
Charles  Wrackham. 

Well,  he  did  know  him,  pretty  inti- 
mately, too,  but  it  was  through  An- 
tigone, and  because  of  Antigone,  and  for 
Antigone's  adorable  sake.  We  never 
called  her  anything  but  Antigone,  though 
Angelette  was  the  name  that  Wrack- 
ham, with  that  peculiar  short-sighted- 
ness of  his,  had  given  to  the  splendid 
creature. 

Why  Antigone?  You'll  see  why. 
They  met  first,  if  you'll  believe  it,  at 
Ford  Lankester' s  funeral.  I'd  gone  to 
Chenies  early  with  young  Furnival,  who 
was  "doing"  the  funeral  for  his  paper, 
and  with  Burton,  who  knew  the  Lan- 
kesters,  as  I  did,  slightly.  I'd  had  a 
horrible  misgiving  that  I  should  see 
Wrackham  there;  and  there  he  was,  in 
the  intense  mourning  of  that  black  cloak 
and  slouch  hat  he  used  to  wear.  The 
cloak  was  a  fine  thing  as  far  as  it  went, 
and  with  a  few  more  inches  he  really 
might  have  carried  it  off;  but  those  few 
more  inches  were  just  what  had  been 
denied  him.  He  was  standing  in  it  un- 
der a  yew-tree  looking  down  into  Lan- 
kester's grave.  It  was  a  small  white 
chamber  about  two  feet  square — enough 
for  his  ashes.  The  earth  at  the  top  of  it 
was  edged  with  branches  of  pine  and 
laurel. 

Furnival  said  afterward  you  could  see 
what  poor  Wrackham  was  thinking  of. 
He  would  have  pine  branches.  Pine 
would  be  appropriate  for  the  stormy 
child  of  nature  that  he  was.  And  laurel 
— there  would  have  to  be  lots  of  laurel. 

Yes,  I  know  it's  sad,  in  all  conscience. 
But  Furnival  seemed  to  think  it  funny 


then,  for  he  called  my  attention  to  him. 
I  mustn't  miss  him,  he  said. 

Perhaps  I  might  have  thought  it 
funny  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Antigone. 
I  was  not  prepared  for  Antigone.  I 
hadn't  realized  her.  She  was  there  be- 
side her  father,  not  looking  into  the 
grave,  but  looking  at  him,  as  if  she  knew 
what  he  was  thinking  and  found  it,  as 
we  find  it  now,  pathetic.  But  unbear- 
ably pathetic. 

Somehow  there  seemed  nothing  in- 
congruous in  her  being  there.  No,  I 
can't  tell  you  what  she  was  like  to  look 
at,  except  that  she  was  like  a  great 
sacred,  sacrificial  figure;  she  might  have 
come  there  to  pray,  or  to  offer  something, 
or  to  pour  out  a  libation. 

It  was  because  of  Antigone  that  I  went 
up  and  spoke  to  him,  and  did  it  (I  like 
to  think  I  did  it  now)  with  reverence. 
He  seemed,  in  spite  of  the  reverence,  to 
be  a  little  dashed  at  seeing  me  there. 
His  idea  evidently  was  that  if  so  obscure 
a  person  as  I  was  could  be  present,  it 
diminished  his  splendor  and  significance. 

He  inquired  (for  hope  was  immortal 
in  him)  whether  I  was  there  for  the  pa- 
pers ?  I  said,  No,  I  wasn't  there  for  any- 
thing. I  had  come  down  with  Burton 
because  we —    But  he  interrupted  me. 

"What's  he  doing  here?"  he  said. 
There  was  the  funniest  air  of  resentment 
and  suspicion  about  him. 

I  reminded  him  that  Burton's  "  Essay 
on  Ford  Lankester"  had  given  him  a 
certain  claim.  Besides,  Mrs.  Lankester 
had  asked  him.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
she  had  asked.  I  really  couldn't  tell  him 
she  had  asked  me. 

His  gloom  was  awful  enough  when  he 
heard  that  Burton  had  been  asked.  You 
see,  the  fact  glared,  and  even  he  must 
have  felt  it,  that  he,  with  his  tremendous, 
his  horrific  vogue,  had  not  achieved 
what  Grevill  Burton  had  by  his  young 
talent.  He  had  never  known  Ford  Lan- 
kester. Goodness  knows,  I  didn't  mean 
to  rub  it  into  him;  but  there  it  was. 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


37 


We  had  moved  away  from  the  edge  of 
the  grave  (I  think  he  didn't  like  to  be 
seen  standing  there  with  me)  and  I 
begged  him  to  introduce  me  to  his  daugh- 
ter. He  did  so  with  an  alacrity  which  I 
have  since  seen  was  anything  but  flat- 
tering to  me,  and  left  me  with  her,  while 
he  made  what  you  might  call  a  dead  set 
at  Furnival.  He  had  had  his  eye  on  him 
and  on  the  other  representatives  of  the 
press  all  the  time  he  had  been  talking  to 
me.  Now  he  made  straight  for  him; 
when  Furnival  edged  off  he  followed; 
when  Furnival  dodged  he  doubled;  he 
was  so  afraid  that  Furnival  might  miss 
him.  As  if  Furnival  could  have  missed 
him,  as  if  in  the  face  of  Wrackham's 
vogue  his  paper  would  have  let  him  miss 
him.  It  would  have  been  as  much  as 
Furny's  place  on  it  was  worth. 

But  it  wasn't  till  it  was  all  over  that 
he  came  out  really  strong.  We  were 
sitting  together  in  the  parlor  of  the  vil- 
lage inn,  he  and  Antigone,  and  Grevill 
Burton  and  Furnival  and  I,  with  an  hour 
on  our  hands  before  our  train  left.  I 
had  ordered  tea  on  Antigone's  account, 
for  I  saw  that  she  was  famished.  They 
had  come  down  from  Devonshire  that 
same  day.  They  had  got  up  at  five  to 
catch  the  early  train  from  Seaton  Junc- 
tion, and  then  they'd  made  a  dash 
across  London  for  the  twelve-thirty  from 
Marylebone;  and  somehow  they'd  either 
failed  or  forgotten  to  lunch.  Antigone 
said  she  hadn't  cared  about  it.  Anyhow, 
there  she  was  with  us.  We  were  all  feel- 
ing that  relief  from  nervous  tension 
which  comes  after  a  funeral.  Furnival 
had  his  stylo  out  and  was  jotting  down 
a  few  impressions.  Wrackham  had  edged 
up  to  him  and  was  sitting,  you  may  say, 
in  Furny's  pocket  while  he  explained  to 
us  that  his  weak  health  would  have  pre- 
vented him  from  coming,  but  that  he 
had  to  come.  He  evidently  thought  that 
the  funeral  couldn't  have  taken  place 
without  him,  not  with  any  decency,  you 
know.  And  then  Antigone  said  a  thing 
for  which  I  loved  her  instantly. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  come,"  she  said. 
"I  felt  all  the  time  I  oughtn't.  I  hadn't 
any  right." 

That  drew  him. 

"  You  had  your  right,"  he  said.  "You 
are  your  father's  daughter." 
He  brooded  somberly. 


"It  was  not,"  he  said,  "what  I  had 
expected — that  meager  following.  Who 
were  there?  Not  two,  not  three,  and 
there  should  have  been  an  army  of  us." 

He  squared  himself  and  faced  the  in- 
visible as  if  he  led  the  van. 

That  and  his  attitude  drew  Burton 
down  on  to  him. 

"Was  there  ever  an  army,"  he  asked 
dangerously,  "of 'us'?" 

Wrackham  looked  at  Burton  (it  was 
the  first  time  he'd  taken  the  smallest 
notice  of  him)  with  distinct  approval,  as 
if  the  young  man  had  suddenly  shown 
more  ability  than  he  had  given  him 
credit  for.  But  you  don't  suppose  he'd 
seen  the  irony  in  him.    Not  he! 

"You're  right,"  he  said.  "Very  right. 
All  the  same,  there  ought  to  have  been 
more  there  besides  myself." 

He  would  have  kept  it  up  intermi- 
nably on  that  scale,  but  Antigone  created 
a  diversion  (I  think  she  did  it  on  purpose 
to  screen  him)  by  getting  up  and  going 
out  softly  into  the  porch  of  the  inn. 

Burton  followed  her  there. 

You  forgive  many  things  to  Burton. 
I  have  had  to  forgive  his  cutting  me  out 
with  Antigone.  He  says  that  they  talked 
about  nothing  but  Ford  Lankester  out 
there,  and  certainly  as  I  joined  them  I 
heard  Antigone  saying  again,  "  I  oughtn't 
to  have  come.  I  only  came  because  I 
adored  him."  I  heard  Burton  say,  "And 
you  never  knew  him?"  And  Antigone, 
"No,  how  could  I?" 

And  then  I  saw  him  give  it  back  to  her 
with  his  young  radiance.  "It's  a  pity. 
He  would  have  adored  you,99 

He  always  says  it  was  Ford  Lankester 
that  did  it. 

The  next  thing  Furnival's  article  came 
out.  Charles  Wrackham's  name  was  in 
it  all  right,  and  poor  Antigone's.  I'm 
sure  it  made  her  sick  to  see  it  there. 
Furny  had  been  very  solemn  and  deco- 
rous in  his  article;  but  in  private  his  pro- 
fanity was  awful.  He  said  it  only  re- 
mained nowfor  Charles  Wrackham  todie. 

He  didn't  die.  Not  then,  not  all  at 
once.  He  had  an  illness  afterward  that 
sent  his  circulation  up  to  I  don't  know 
what,  but  he  didn't  die  of  it.  He  knew 
his  business  far  too  well  to  die  then.  We 
had  five  blessed  years  of  him.  Nor  could 
we  have  done  with  less.    Words  can't 


38 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


describe  the  joy  he  was  to  us,  nor  what 
he  would  have  been  but  for  Antigone. 

I  ought  to  tell  you  that  he  recovered 
his  spirits  wonderfully  on  our  way  back 
from  Chenies.  He  had  mistaken  our 
attentions  to  Antigone  for  interest  in 
him,  and  he  began  to  unbend,  to  unfold 
himself,  to  expand  gloriously.  It  was  as 
as  if  he  felt  that  the  removal  of  Ford 
Lankester  had  left  him  room. 

He  proposed  that  Burton  and  I  should 
make  a  pilgrimage  some  day  to  Wild- 
weather  Hall.  He  called  it  a  pilgrimage 
— to  the  shrine,  you  understand. 

Well,  we  made  it.  We  used  to  make 
many  pilgrimages,  but  Burton  made 
more  than  I. 

The  Sacred  Place,  you  remember,  was 
down  in  East  Devon.  He'd  built  himself 
there  a  modern  Tudor  mansion — if  you 
know  what  that  is — and  ruined  the  most 
glorious  bit  of  the  coast  between  Seaton 
and  Sidmouth.  It  stood  at  the  head  of  a 
combe  looking  to  the  sea.  They'd  used 
old  stone  for  the  enormous  front  of  it, 
and  really,  if  he'd  stuck  it  anywhere 
else  it  might  have  been  rather  fine.  But 
it  was  much  too  large  for  the  combe. 
Why,  when  all  the  lights  were  lit  in  it 
you  could  see  it  miles  out  to  sea,  twin- 
kling away  like  the  line  of  the  Brighton 
Parade.  It  was  one  immense  advertise- 
ment of  Charles  Wrackham. 

The  regular  approach  to  him,  for  pil- 
grims, was  extraordinarily  impressive. 
And  not  only  the  "grounds,"  but  the 
whole  interior  of  the  Tudor  mansion 
must  have  been  planned  with  a  view  to 
that  alone.  It  was  all  staircase  and 
galleries  and  halls,  black  oak  darkness 
and  sudden  clear  spaces  and  beautiful 
chintzy,  silky  rooms,  lots  of  them,  for 
Mrs.  Wrackham,  and  books  and  busts 
and  statues  everywhere.  And  these  were 
only  his  outer  courts;  inside  them  was  his 
sanctuary. 

As  you  came  through,  everything  led 
up  to  him,  as  it  were,  by  easy  stages  and 
gradations.  He  didn't  burst  on  you 
cruelly  and  blind  you.  You  waited  a 
minute  or  two  in  the  library,  which  was 
all  what  he  called  "silent  presences  and 
peace."  The  silent  presences,  you  see, 
prepared  you  for  him.  And  when,  by 
gazing  on  the  busts  of  Shakespeare  and 
Cervantes,  your  mind  was  tuned  up  to 
him,  then  you  were  let  in. 


It's  no  use  speculating  what  he  would 
have  been  if  he'd  never  written  anything. 
You  cannot  detach  him  from  his  writ- 
ings, nor  would  he  have  wished  to  be 
detached.  I  suppose  he  would  still  have 
been  the  innocent,  dependent  creature 
that  he  was,  fond,  very  fond  of  himself, 
but  fond  also  of  his  home  and  of  his 
wife  and  daughter.  It  was  his  domes- 
ticity, described,  illustrated,  exploited 
in  a  hundred  papers,  that  helped  to 
endear  Charles  Wrackham  to  his  pre- 
posterous public.  It  was  part  of  the  im- 
mense advertisement.  His  wife's  gowns, 
the  sums  he  spent  on  her,  the  affection 
that  he  notoriously  lavished  on  her,  were 
part  of  it. 

I'll  own  that  at  one  time  I  had  a  great 
devotion  to  Mrs.  Wrackham  (circum- 
stances have  somewhat  strained  it  since). 
She  was  a  woman  of  an  adorable  plump- 
ness, with  the  remains  of  a  beauty  which 
must  have  been  pink  and  golden  once. 
And  she  would  have  been  absolutely  sim- 
ple but  for  the  touch  of  assurance  that 
was  given  her  by  her  position  as  the 
publicly  loved  wife  of  a  great  man. 
Every  full,  round  line  of  her  face  and 
figure  declared  (I  don't  like  to  say  adver- 
tised) her  function.  She  existed  in  and 
for  Charles  Wrackham. 

It  was  our  second  day,  Sunday,  and 
Wrackham  had  been  asleep  in  his  shrine 
all  afternoon  while  she  piloted  us  in  the 
heat  about  the  "grounds."  I  remember 
I  began  that  Sunday  by  cracking  up 
Burton  to  her,  just  to  see  how  she  would 
take  it,  and  perhaps  for  another  reason. 
I  spoke  to  her  of  Burton  and  his  work, 
of  the  essay  on  Ford  Lankester,  of  the 
brilliant  novel  he  had  just  published; 
and  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  speak  of 
the  praise  it  had  received;  but  I  couldn't 
interest  her  in  Burton.  I  believe  she 
always,  up  to  the  very  last,  owed  Burton 
a  grudge  on  account  of  his  novels;  not 
so  much  because  he  had  so  presump- 
tuously written  them  as  because  he  had 
been  praised  for  writing  them. 

I  don't  know  how  I  got  her  off  Wrack- 
ham and  on  to  Antigone.  I  may  have 
asked  her  point-blank  to  what  extent 
Antigone  was  her  father's  daughter.  I 
was  given  to  understand  that  Antigone 
was  a  dedicated  child,  a  child  set  apart  and 
consecrated  to  the  service  of  her  father. 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


39 


It  was  not,  of  course,  to  be  expected  that 
she  should  inherit  any  of  his  genius; 
Mrs.  Wrackham  seemed  to  think  it  suffi- 
ciently wonderful  that  she  should  have 
developed  the  intelligence  that  fitted  her 
to  be  his  secretary.  I  was  not  to  suppose 
it  was  because  he  couldn't  afford  a 
secretary  (the  lady  laughed  as  she  said 
this;  for  you  see  how  absurd  it  was, 
the  idea  of  Charles  Wrackham  not  being 
able  to  afford  anything).  It  was  because 
they  both  felt  that  Antigone  ought  not 
to  be,  as  she  put  it,  "overshadowed"  by 
him;  he  wished  that  she  should  be  asso- 
ciated, intimately  associated,  with  his 
work;  that  the  child  should  have  her 
little  part  in  his  glory. 

She  sighed  under  the  sunshade.  "That 
child,"  she  said,  "can  do  more  for  him, 
Mr.  Simpson,  than  I  can." 

I  could  see  that  though  the  poor  lady 
didn't  know  it,  she  suffered  a  subtle  sor- 
row and  temptation.  If  she  hadn't  been 
so  amiable,  if  she  hadn't  been  so  good, 
she  would  have  been  jealous  of  Antigone. 

She  assured  us  that  only  his  wife  and 
daughter  knew  what  he  really  was. 

We  wondered,  did  Antigone  know? 
She  made  no  sign  of  distance  or  dissent, 
but  somehow  she  didn't  seem  to  belong 
to  him.  There  was  something  remote 
and  irrelevant  about  her;  she  didn't  fit 
into  the  advertisement.  And  in  her  re- 
moteness and  irrelevance  she  remained 
inscrutable.  She  gave  no  clue  to  what 
she  really  thought  of  him.  We  couldn't 
tell  whether,  like  her  mother,  she  be- 
lieved implicitly,  or  whether  she  saw 
through  him. 

She  was  devoted  to  him,  devoted  with 
passion.  There  couldn't  be  any  sort  of 
doubt  about  it. 

Sometimes  I  wondered  even  then  if 
it  wasn't  almost  entirely  a  passion  of 
pity.    For  she  must  have  known. 

And  the  tenderness  she  put  into  it! 

Wrackham  never  knew  how  it  pro- 
tected him.  It  regularly  spoiled  our  plea- 
sure in  him.  We  couldn't — when  we 
thought  of  Antigone — get  the  good  out 
of  him  we  might  have  done.  We  had  to 
be  tender  to  him,  too.  I  think  Antigone 
liked  us  for  our  tenderness.  Certainly 
she  liked  Burton,  from  the  first. 

They  had  known  each  other  about  six 
months  when  he  proposed  to  her,  and 


she  wouldn't  have  him.  He  went  on 
proposing  at  ridiculously  short  intervals, 
but  it  wasn't  a  bit  of  good.  Wrackham 
wouldn't  give  his  consent,  and  it  seemed 
Antigone  wouldn't  marry  anybody  with- 
out it.  He  said  Burton  was  too  poor 
and  Antigone  too  young,  but  the  real 
reason  was  that  Burton's  proposal  came 
as  a  horrible  shock  to  his  vanity.  I  told 
you  how  coolly  he  had  appropriated  the 
young  man's  ardent  and  irrepressible 
devotion;  he  had  looked  on  him  as  a 
disciple,  a  passionate  pilgrim  to  his 
shrine;  and  the  truth,  the  disillusion- 
ment, was  more  than  he  could  stand. 
He'd  never  had  a  disciple  or  a  pilgrim 
of  Burton's  quality.  He  had  had  his  eye 
on  him  from  the  first  as  a  young  man, 
an  exceptionally  brilliant  young  man 
who  might  be  useful  to  him. 

And  so,  though  he  wouldn't  let  the 
brilliant  young  man  marry  his  daughter, 
he  wasn't  going  to  lose  sight  of  him;  and 
Burton  continued  his  passionate  pilgrim- 
ages to  Wildweather  Hall. 

I  didn't  see  Wrackham  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  heard  of  him,  and  heard  all  I 
wanted,  for  Burton  was  by  no  means  so 
tender  to  him  as  he  used  to  be.  And  I 
heard  of  poor  Antigone.  I  gathered  that 
she  wasn't  happy,  that  she  was  losing 
some  of  her  splendor  and  vitality.  In 
all  Burton's  pictures  of  her  you  could  see 
her  droop. 

This  went  on  for  nearly  three  years, 
and  by  that  time  Burton,  as  you  know, 
had  made  a  name  for  himself  that 
couldn't  be  ignored.  He  was  also  mak- 
ing a  modest,  a  rather  painfully  modest, 
income.  And  one  evening  he  burst  into 
my  rooms  and  told  me  it  was  all  right. 
Antigone  had  come  round.  Wrackham 
hadn't,  but  that  didn't  matter.  An- 
tigone had  said  she  didn't  care.  They 
might  have  to  wait  a  bit,  but  that  didn't 
matter,  either.  The  great  thing  was  that 
she  had  accepted  him,  that  she  had  had 
the  courage  to  oppose  her  father.  You 
see,  they  scored  because,  as  long  as 
Wrackham  had  his  eye  on  Burton,  he 
didn't  forbid  him  the  house. 

I  went  down  with  him  soon  after  that 
by  Wrackham's  invitation.  I'm  not  sure 
that  he  hadn't  his  eye  on  me;  he  had  his 
eye  on  everybody  in  those  days  when,  you 
know,  his  vogue,  his  tremendous  vogue, 
was  just  perceptibly  on  the  decline. 


40 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


I  found  him  changed,  rather  pitiably 
changed,  and  in  low  spirits.  "They" — 
the  reviewers,  the  terribly  profane  young 
men — had  been  "going  for  him"  again, 
as  he  called  it. 

There  were  moments  of  a  dreadful  in- 
sight when  he  heard  behind  him  the 
creeping  of  the  tide  of  oblivion,  and  it 
frightened  him.  He  was  sensitive  to 
every  little  fluctuation  in  his  vogue.  He 
had  the  fear  of  its  vanishing  before  his 
eyes.  And  there  he  was,  shut  up  among 
all  his  splendor  with  his  fear,  and  it  was 
his  wife's  work  and  Antigone's  to  keep 
it  from  him,  to  stand  between  him  and 
that  vision.  He  was  like  a  child  when 
his  terror  was  on  him;  he  would  go  to 
anybody  for  comfort.  I  believe  if  An- 
tigone and  his  wife  hadn't  been  there, 
he'd  have  confided  in  his  chauffeur. 

He  confided  now  in  us,  walking  a  lit- 
tle dejectedly  with  us  in  his  "grounds." 

"They'd  destroy  me,"  he  said,  "if 
they  could.  How  they  can  take  pleasure 
in  it,  Simpson — it's  incredible,  incom- 
prehensible." 

He  kept  on  saying  it  was  easy  enough 
to  destroy  a  great  name.  Did  they 
know — did  any  one  know — what  it  cost 
to  build  one? 

I  said  to  myself  that  possibly  Antigone 
might  know.  All  I  said  to  him  was, 
"Look  here,  we're  agreed  they  can't  do 
anything.  When  a  man  has  once  cap- 
tured and  charmed  the  great  heart  of 
the  public,  he's  safe — in  his  lifetime, 
anyway." 

Then  he  burst  out:  "His  lifetime? 
Do  you  suppose  he  cares  about  his  life- 
time? It's  the  life  beyond  life — the  life 
beyond  life." 

It  was  in  fact,  d'you  see,  the  Life  and 
Letters.    He  was  thinking  about  it  then. 

He  went  on:  "They  have  it  all  their 
own  way.  He  can't  retort;  he  can't  ex- 
plain; he  can't  justify  himself.  It's  only 
when  he's  dead  they'll  let  him  speak. 

"  Well,  I  mean  to.  That  '11  show  'em," 
he  said,  "that'll  show  'em." 

"He's  thinking  of  it,  Simpson.  He's 
thinking  of  it,"  Burton  said  to  me  that 
evening. 

He  smiled.  He  didn't  know  what  his 
thinking  of  it  was  going  to  mean — for  him. 

He  had  been  thinking  of  it  for  some 
considerable  time.   That  pilgrimage  was 


my  last — it  '11  be  two  years  ago  this 
autumn — and  it  was  in  the  spring  of  last 
year  he  died. 

He  was  happy  in  his  death.  It  saved 
him  from  the  thing  he  dreaded  above 
everything,  certainty  of  the  ultimate  ex- 
tinction. It  has  not  come  yet.  We  are 
feeling  still  the  long  reverberation  of  his 
vogue.  We  miss  him  still  in  the  gleam, 
the  jest  gone  forever  from  the  papers. 
There  is  no  doubt  but  that  his  death 
staved  off  the  ultimate  extinction.  And 
there  was  more  laurel  and  a  larger 
crowd  at  Brookwood  than  on  the  day 
when  we  first  met  him  in  the  churchyard 
at  Chenies. 

And  then  we  said  there  had  been  stuff 
in  him.  We  talked  (in  the  papers)  of 
his  "output."  He  had  been,  after  all,  a 
prodigious,  a  gigantic  worker.  He  ap- 
pealed to  our  profoundest  national  in- 
stincts, to  our  British  admiration  of 
sound  business,  of  the  self-made,  suc- 
cessful man.  He  might  not  have  done 
anything  for  posterity,  but  he  had  pro- 
vided magnificently  for  his  child  and 
widow. 

So  we  appraised  him.  Then  on  the 
top  of  it  all  the  crash  came,  the  tremen- 
dous crash  that  left  his  child  and  widow 
almost  penniless.  He  hadn't  provided 
for  them  at  all.  He  had  provided  for 
nothing  but  his  own  advertisement.  Fie 
had  been  living,  not  only  beyond  his 
income,  but  beyond,  miles  beyond,  his 
capital;  beyond  even  the  perennial 
power  that  was  the  source  of  it.  And 
he  had  been  afraid,  poor  fellow,  to  re- 
trench, to  reduce  by  one  cucumber-frame 
the  items  of  the  huge  advertisement; 
why,  it  would  have  been  as  good  as 
putting  up  the  shop  windows. 

His  widow  explained  tearfully  how  it 
all  was,  and  how  wise  and  foreseeing  he 
had  been,  what  a  thoroughly  sound  man 
of  business.  And  really  we  thought  the 
dear  lady  wouldn't  be  left  so  very  badly 
off.  We  calculated  that  Burton  would 
marry  Antigone,  and  that  the  simple, 
self-denying  woman  would  live  in  mod- 
est comfort  on  the  mere  proceeds  of  the 
inevitable  sale.  Then  we  heard  that  the 
Tudor  mansion,  the  "grounds,"  the  very 
cucumber-frames,  were  sunk  in  a  mort- 
gage; and  the  sale  of  his  "effects,"  the 
motor-cars  and  furniture,  the  books  and 
the  busts,  paid  his  creditors  in  full,  but 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


41 


it  left  a  bare  pittance  for  his  child  and 
widow. 

They  had  come  up  to  town  in  that 
exalted  state  with  which  courageous 
women  face  adversity.  In  her  excite- 
ment Antigone  tried  hard  to  break  off 
her  engagement  to  Grevill  Burton.  She 
was  going  to  do  typewriting;  she  was 
going  to  be  somebody's  secretary;  she 
was  going  to  do  a  thousand  things.  She 
had  got  it  into  her  head,  poor  girl,  that 
Wrackham  had  killed  himself,  ruined 
himself,  by  his  efforts  to  provide  for  his 
child  and  widow.  They  had  been  the 
millstones  round  his  neck.  She  even 
talked  openly  now  about  the  "pot- 
boilers" they  had  compelled  papa  to 
write;  by  which  she  gave  us  to  under- 
stand that  he  had  been  made  for  better 
things.  It  would  have  broken  your  heart 
to  hear  her. 

Her  mother,  ravaged  and  reddened  by 
grief,  met  us  day  after  day  (we  were 
doing  all  we  could  for  her)  with  her  in- 
destructible, luminous  smile.  She  could 
be  tearful  still,  on  provocation,  through 
the  smile,  but  there  was  something  about 
her  curiously  casual  and  calm,  some- 
thing that  hinted  almost  complacently 
at  a  little  mystery  somewhere,  as  if  she 
had  up  her  sleeve  resources  that  we  were 
not  allowing  for. 

"Lord  only  knows,"  I  said  to  Burton, 
"what  the  dear  soul  imagines  will  turn 
up." 

Then  one  day  she  sent  for  me;  for 
me,  mind  you,  not  Burton.  There  was 
something  that  she  and  her  daughter  de- 
sired to  consult  me  about.  I  went  off 
at  once  to  the  dreadful  little  lodgings  in 
the  Fulham  Road  where  they  had  taken 
refuge.  I  found  Antigone  looking,  if  any- 
thing, more  golden  and  more  splendid, 
more  divinely  remote  and  irrelevant 
against  the  dingy  background.  Her 
mother  was  sitting  very  upright  at  the 
head  and  she  at  the  side  of  the  table 
that  almost  filled  the  room.  They  called 
me  to  the  chair  set  for  me  facing  An- 
tigone. Throughout  the  interview  I  was 
exposed,  miserably,  to  the  clear  candor 
of  her  gaze. 

Her  mother,  with  the  simplicity  which 
was  her  charming  quality,  came  straight 
to  the  point.  It  seemed  that  Wrackham 
had  thought  better  of  us,  of  Burton  and 
me,  than  he  had  ever  let  us  know.  He 


had  named  us  his  literary  executors.  Of 
course,  his  widow  expounded,  with  the 
option  of  refusal.  Her  smile  took  for 
granted  that  we  would  not  refuse. 

What  did  I  say?  Well,  I  said  that  I 
couldn't  speak  for  Burton,  but  for  my 
own  part  I — I  said  I  was  honored  (for 
Antigone  was  looking  at  me  with  those 
eyes),  and  of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of 
refusing,  and  I  didn't  imagine  Burton 
would,  either.  You  see  I'd  no  idea  what 
it  meant.  I  supposed  we  were  only  in 
for  the  last  piteous  turning  out  of  the 
dead  man's  drawers,  the  sorting  and 
sifting  of  the  rubbish-heap.  We  were  to 
decide  what  was  worthy  of  him  and  what 
was  not. 

There  couldn't,  I  supposed,  be  much 
of  it.  He  had  been  hard-pressed.  He 
had  always  published  up  to  the  extreme 
limit  of  his  production. 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Life  and 
Letters.  They  had  been  only  a  fantastic 
possibility,  a  thing  our  profane  imagina- 
tion played  with;  and  under  the  serious, 
chastening  influence  of  his  death  it  had 
ceased  to  play. 

And  now  they  were  telling  me  that 
this  thing  was  a  fact.  The  Letters  were, 
at  any  rate.  They  had  raked  them  all 
in,  to  the  last  post-card  (he  hadn't  writ- 
ten any  to  us),  and  there  only  remained 
the  Life.  It  wasn't  a  perfectly  accom- 
plished fact;  it  would  need  editing,  fill- 
ing out  and  completing  from  where  he 
had  left  it  off.  He  had  not  named  his 
editor,  his  biographer,  in  writing — at 
least  they  could  find  no  note  of  it  among 
his  papers — but  he  had  expressed  a  wish, 
a  wish  that  they  felt  they  could  not  dis- 
regard. He  had  expressed  it  the  night 
before  he  died  to  Antigone,  who  was  with 
him. 

"Did  he  not,  dearest?" 

I  heard  Antigone  say,  "Yes,  mamma." 
She  was  not  looking  at  me  then. 

There  was  a  perfectly  awful  silence. 
And  then  Antigone  did  look  at  me  and 
she  smiled  faintly. 

"It  isn't  you,"  she  said. 

No,  it  was  not  I.  I  wasn't  in  it.  It 
was  Grevill  Burton. 

I  ought  to  tell  you  it  wasn't  an  open 
secret  any  more  that  Burton  was  editing 
the  Life  and  Letters  of  Ford  Lankester, 
with  a  Critical  Introduction.  The  an- 
nouncement had  appeared  in  the  papers 


42 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


a  day  or  two  before  Wrack  ham's  death. 
He  had  had  his  eye  on  Burton.  He  may 
have  wavered  between  him  and  another, 
he  may  have  doubted  whether  Burton 
was,  after  all,  good  enough;  but  that 
honor,  falling  to  Burton  at  that  moment, 
clinched  it.  There  was  prestige,  there 
was  the  thing  he  wanted.  Burton  was 
his  man. 

There  wouldn't,  Mrs.  Wrackham  said, 
be  so  very  much  editing  to  do.  He  had 
worked  hard  in  the  years  before  his 
death.  He  had  gathered  in  all  the  mate- 
rial, and  there  were  considerable  frag- 
ments— whole  blocks  of  reminiscences — ■ 
which  could  be  left,  which  should  be  left, 
as  they  stood  (her  manner  implied  that 
they  were  monuments).  What  they 
wanted,  of  course,  was  something  more 
than  editing.  Anybody  could  have  done 
that.  There  was  the  Life  to  be  com- 
pleted in  the  later  years,  the  years  in 
which  Mr.  Burton  had  known  him  more 
intimately  than  any  of  his  friends. 
Above  all,  what  was  necessary,  what  had 
been  made  so  necessary,  was  a  Critical 
Introduction,  the  summing  up,  the 
giving  of  him  to  the  world  as  he  really 
was. 

Did  I  think  they  had  better  approach 
Mr.  Burton  direct,  or  would  I  do  that 
for  them?  Would  I  sound  him  on  the 
subject? 

I  said,  cheerfully,  that  I  would  sound 
him.  If  Burton  couldn't  undertake  it 
(I  had  to  prepare  them  for  this  possibil- 
ity), no  doubt  we  should  find  somebody 
who  could. 

But  Antigone  met  this  suggestion  with 
a  clear  "No."  It  wasn't  to  be  done  at 
all  unless  Mr.  Burton  did  it.  And  her 
mother  gave  a  little  cry.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable that  it  should  not  be  done.  Mr. 
Burton  must.  He  would.  He  would  see 
the  necessity,  the  importance  of  it. 

Well,  I  sounded  Burton.  He  stared 
at  me  aghast.  I  was  relieved  to  find  that 
he  was  not  going  to  be  sentimental  about 
it.    He  refused  flatly. 

"I  can't  do  him  and  Lankester,"  he 
said. 

I  saw  his  point.  He  would  have  to 
keep  himself  clean  for  him.  I  said  of 
course  he  couldn't,  but  I  didn't  know 
how  he  was  going  to  make  it  straight 
with  Antigone. 

"I  sha'n't  have  to  make  it  straight 


with  Antigone,"  he  said.  "  She'll  see  it. 
She  always  has  seen." 

That  was  just  exactly  what  I  doubted. 

I  was  wrong.  She  always  had  seen. 
And  it  was  because  she  saw,  and  loathed 
herself  for  seeing,  that  she  insisted  on 
Burton's  doing  this  thing.  It  was  part 
of  her  expiation,  her  devotion,  her  long 
sacrificial  act.  She  was  dragging  Bur- 
ton into  it  partly,  I  believe,  because  he 
had  seen  too,  more  clearly,  more  pro- 
fanely, more  terribly  than  she. 

Oh,  and  there  was  more  in  it  than  that. 
I  got  it  all  from  Burton.  He  had  been 
immensely  plucky  about  it.  He  didn't 
leave  it  to  me  to  get  him  out  of  it.  He 
had  gone  to  her  himself,  so  certain  was 
he  that  he  could  make  it  straight  with 
her. 

And  he  hadn't  made  it  straight  at  all. 
It  had  been  more  awful,  he  said,  than  I 
could  imagine.  She  hadn't  seen  his 
point.  She  had  refused  to  see  it,  abso- 
lutely (I  had  been  right  there,  anyhow). 

He  had  said,  in  order  to  be  decent, 
that  he  was  too  busy;  he  was  pledged 
to  Lankester  and  couldn't  possibly  do 
the  two  together.  And  she  had  seen  all 
that.  She  said  of  course  it  was  a  pity 
that  he  couldn't  do  it  now  while  people 
were  ready  for  her  father,  willing,  she 
said,  to  listen;  but  if  it  couldn't  be  done 
at  once,  why,  it  couldn't.  After  all,  they 
could  afford  to  wait.  He,  she  said  su- 
perbly, could  afford  it.  She  ignored  in 
her  fine  manner  the  material  side  of  the 
Life  and  Letters,  its  absolute  importance 
to  their  poor  finances,  the  fact  that  if 
he  could  afford  to  wait,  they  couldn't. 
I  don't  think  that  view  of  it  ever  entered 
into  her  head.  The  great  thing,  she 
said,  was  that  it  should  be  done. 

And  then  he  had  to  tell  her  that  he 
couldn't  do  it.  He  couldn't  do  it  at  all. 
"That  part  of  it,  Simpson,"  he  said, 
"was  horrible.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  butcher- 
ing her— butchering  a  lamb." 

But  I  gathered  that  he  had  been 
pretty  firm  so  far,  until  she  broke  down 
and  cried.  For  she  did,  poor  bleeding 
lamb,  all  in  a  minute.  She  abandoned 
her  superb  attitude  and  her  high  ground 
and  put  it  altogether  on  another  footing. 
Her  father  hadn't  been  the  happy,  satis- 
fied, facilely  successful  person  he  was 
supposed  to  be.    People  had  been  cruel 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


43 


to  him;  they  had  never  understood; 
they  didn't  realize  that  his  work  didn't 
represent  him.  He  knew,  Burton  knew, 
how  he  had  felt  about  it,  how  he  had  felt 
about  his  fame.  It  hadn't  been  the 
thing  he  really  wanted.  He  had  never 
had  that.  And,  oh,  she  wanted  him  to 
have  it.  It  was  the  only  thing  she 
wanted.  The  only  thing  she  really  cared 
about,  the  only  thing  she  had  ever  asked 
of  Burton. 

Even  then,  so  he  says,  he  had  held  out, 
but  more  feebly.  He  said  he  thought 
somebody  else  ought  to  do  it,  somebody 
who  knew  her  father  better.  And  she 
said  that  nobody  could  do  it,  nobody 
did  know  him;  there  was  nobody's  name 
that  would  give  the  value  to  the  thing 
that  Burton's  would.  That  was  hand- 
some of  her,  Burton  said.  And  he  seems 
to  have  taken  refuge  from  this  danger- 
ous praise  in  a  modesty  that  was  absurd, 
and  that  he  knew  to  be  absurd  in  a  man 
who  had  got  Lankester's  Life  on  his 
hands.  And  Antigone  saw  through  it; 
she  saw  through  it  at  once.  But  she 
didn't  see  it  all;  he  hadn't  the  heart  to  let 
her  see  his  real  reasons,  that  he  couldn't 
do  them  both.  He  couldn't  do  Wrack- 
ham  after  Lankester,  nor  yet,  for  Lan- 
kester's sake,  before.  And  he  couldn't, 
for  his  own  sake,  do  him  at  any  time.  It 
would  make  him  too  ridiculous. 

And  in  the  absence  of  his  real  reasons 
he  seems  to  have  been  singularly  ineffec- 
tive. He  just  sat  there  saying  anything 
that  came  into  his  head  except  the  one 
thing. 

Finally  she  made  a  bargain  with  him. 
She  said  that  if  he  did  it  she  would  marry 
him  whenever  he  liked  (she  had  con- 
sidered their  engagement  broken  off, 
though  he  hadn't).  But  (there  Antigone 
was  adamant)  if  he  didn't,  if  he  cared  so 
little  about  pleasing  her,  she  wouldn't 
marry  him  at  all. 

Then  he  said  of  course  he  did  care;  he 
would  do  anything  to  please  her,  and  if 
she  was  going  to  take  a  mean  advantage 
and  to  put  it  that  way — 

And  of  course  she  interrupted  him  and 
said  he  didn't  see  her  point;  she  wasn't 
putting  it  that  way;  she  wasn't  going 
to  take  advantage,  mean  or  otherwise; 
it  was  a  question  of  a  supreme,  a  sacred 
obligation.  How  could  she  marry  a  man 
who  disregarded,  who  was  capable  of 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  763—6 


disregarding,  her  father's  dying  wish? 
And  that  she  stuck  to. 

Poor  Burton  said  he  didn't  think  it 
was  quite  fair  of  her  to  work  it  that  way, 
but  that  rather  than  lose  her,  rather  than 
lose  Antigone,  he  had  given  in. 

He  had  taken  the  papers — the  docu- 
ments— home  with  him;  and  that  he 
might  know  the  worst,  the  whole  awful 
extent  of  what  he  was  in  for,  he  began 
overhauling  them  at  once. 

I  went  to  see  him  late  one  evening  and 
found  him  at  it.  He  had  been  all  through 
them  once,  he  said,  and  he  was  going 
through  them  again.  I  asked  him  what 
they  were  like.    He  said  nothing. 

" Worse  than  you  thought?"  I  asked. 

Far  worse.  Worse  than  anything  I 
could  imagine.  It  was  inconceivable,  he 
said,  what  they  were  like.  I  said  I  sup- 
posed they  were  like  him.  I  gathered 
from  his  silence  that  it  was  inconceivable 
what  he  was.  That  Wrackham  should 
have  no  conception  of  where  he  really 
stood  was  conceivable;  we  knew  he  was 
like  that,  heaps  of  people  were  and  you 
didn't  think  a  bit  the  worse  of  them; 
you  could  present  a  quite  respectable 
Life  of  them  with  Letters  by  simply 
suppressing  a  few  salient  details  and 
softening  the  egoism  all  round.  But 
what  Burton  supposed  he  was  going 
to  do  with  Wrackham,  short  of  de- 
stroying him!  You  couldn't  soften 
him;  you  couldn't  tone  him  down;  he 
wore  thin  in  the  process  and  vanished 
under  your  touch. 

But,  oh,  he  was  immense!  The  Remi- 
niscences were  the  best.  Burton  showed 
us  some  of  them.   This  was  one: 

"I  have  been  a  fighter  all  my  life.  I 
have  had  many  enemies.  What  man 
who  has  ever  done  anything  worth  doing 
has  not  had  them?  But  our  accounts 
are  separate  and  I  am  willing  to  leave 
the  ultimate  reckoning  to  time.,,  There 
were  lots  of  things  like  that.  Burton 
said  it  was  like  that  cloak  he  used  to 
wear.  It  would  have  been  so  noble  if 
only  he  had  been  a  little  bigger. 

And  there  was  an  entry  in  his  diary 
that  I  think  beat  everything  he'd  ever 
done:  "May  3d,  1905.  Lankester  died. 
Finished  the  last  chapter  of  A  Son  oj 
Thunder.    Ave,  F  rater  y  atque  vale.** 

I  thought  there  was  a  fine  audacity 


44 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


about  it,  but  Burton  said  there  wasn't. 
Audacity  implied  a  consciousness  of  dan- 
ger, and  Wrackham  had  none.  Burton 
was  in  despair. 

"Come/'  I  said,  "there  must  be  some- 
thing in  the  Letters ." 

No,  the  Letters  were  all  about  him- 
self, and  there  wasn't  anything  in  him. 
You  couldn't  conceive  the  futility,  the 
fatuity,  the  vanity;  it  was  a  disease  with 
him. 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  it,  Simpson, 
if  I  hadn't  seen  him  empty  himself." 

"But  the  hinterland?"  I  said.  "How 
about  the  hinterland?  That  was  what 
you  were  to  have  opened  up." 

"There  wasn't  any  hinterland.  He's 
opened  himself  up.  You  can  see  all 
there  was  of  him.  It's  lamentable,  Simp- 
son, lamentable." 

I  said  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  supremely 
funny.  And  he  said  I  wouldn't  think  it 
funny  if  I  were  responsible  for  it. 

"But  you  aren't,"  I  said.  "You  must 
drop  it.  You  can't  be  mixed  up  with 
that.   The  thing's  absurd." 

"Absurd?  Absurdity  isn't  in  it.  It's 
infernal,  Simpson,  what  this  business 
will  mean  to  me." 

"Look  here,"  I  said.  "This  is  all  rot. 
You  can't  go  on  with  it." 

He  groaned.  "I  must  go  on  with  it. 
If  I  don't—" 

"Antigone  will  hang  herself?" 

"No,  she  won't  hang  herself.  She'll 
chuck  me.  That's  how  she  has  me;  it's 
how  I'm  fixed.  Can  you  conceive  a 
beastlier  position?" 

I  said  I  couldn't,  and  that  if  a  girl  of 
mine  put  me  in  it,  by  Heaven,  I'd  chuck 
her. 

He  smiled.  "You  can't  chuck  An- 
tigone," he  said. 

I  said  Antigone's  attitude  was  what  I 
didn't  understand.  It  was  inconceivable 
she  didn't  know  what  the  things  were 
like.  "What  do  you  suppose  she  really 
thinks  of  them?" 

That  was  it.  She  had  never  com- 
mitted herself  to  an  opinion.  "You 
know,"  he  said,  "she  never  did." 

"But,"  I  argued,  "you  told  me  your- 
self she  said  they'd  represent  him.  And 
they  do,  don't  they?" 

"Represent  him?"  He  grinned  in  his 
agony.    "I  should  think  they  did." 

"But,"  I  persisted,  because  he  seemed 


to  me  to  be  shirking  the  issue,  "it  was 
her  idea,  wasn't  it?  That  they'd  justify 
him,  give  him  his  chance  to  speak,  to 
put  himself  straight  with  us  ?" 

"She  seems,"  he  said,  meditatively, 
"to  have  taken  that  for  granted." 

"Taken  it  for  granted?  Skittles!"  I 
said.  "She  must  have  seen  they  were 
impossible.  I'm  convinced,  Burton,  that 
she's  seen  it  all  along;  she's  merely  test- 
ing you  to  see  how  you'd  behave,  how 
far  you'd  go  for  her.  You  needn't  worry. 
You've  gone  far  enough.  She'll  let  you 
off." 

"No,"  he  said,  "she's  not  testing  me. 
I'd  have  seen  through  her  if  it  had  been 
that.  It's  deadly  serious.  It's  a  sacred 
madness  with  her.  She'll  never  let  me 
off.  She'll  never  let  herself  off.  I've 
told  you  a  hundred  times  it's  expiation. 
We  can't  get  round  that." 

"She  must  be  mad  indeed,"  I  said, 
"not  to  see." 

"See?  See?"  he  cried.  "It's  my  be- 
lief, Simpson,  that  she  hasn't  seen.  She's 
been  hiding  her  dear  little  head  in  the 
sand." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "she  hasn't  looked. 
She's  been  afraid  to." 

"Hasn't  looked?" 

"  Hasn't  read  the  damned  things.  She 
doesn't  know  how  they  expose  him." 

"Then,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said, 
"you've  got  to  tell  her." 

"Tell  her?"  he  cried.  "If  I  told  her, 
she  would  go  and  hang  herself.  No.  I'm 
not  to  tell  her.  I'm  not  to  tell  anybody. 
She'd  got  an  idea  that  he's  pretty  well 
exposed  himself,  and,  don't  you  see,  I'm 
to  wrap  him  up." 

"Wrap  him  up — " 

"Wrap  him  up,  so  that  she  can't  see, 
so  that  nobody  can  see.  That's  what  I'm 
here  for — to  edit  him,  Simpson,  edit  him 
out  of  all  recognition.  She  hasn't  put  it 
herself  that  way,  but  that's  what  she 
means.  I'm  to  do  my  best  for  him. 
She's  left  it  to  me  with  boundless  trust 
in  my — my  constructive  imagination. 
Do  you  see?" 

I  did.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he 
had  hit  it. 

"This  thing"  (he  brought  his  fist 
down  on  it  thunderingly),  "when  I've 
finished  with  it,  won't  be  Wrackham; 
it  '11  be  all  me." 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


45 


"That's  to  say  you'll  be  identified 
with  him?" 

"  Identified — crucified — scarified  with 
him.  You  don't  suppose  they'd  spare 
me?  I  shall  he  every  bit  as — as  impos- 
sible as  he  is." 

"You  can  see  all  that,  and  yet  you're 
going  through  with  it?" 

"I  can  see  all  that  and  yet  I'm  going 
through  with  it." 

"And  they  say,"  I  remarked,  gently, 
"that  the  days  of  chivalry  are  dead." 

"Oh,  rot,"  he  said.  "It's  simply  that 
— she's  worth  it." 

Well,  he  was  at  it  for  weeks.  He  says 
he  never  worked  at  anything  as  he 
worked  at  his  Charles  Wrackham.  I 
don't  know  what  he  made  of  him;  he 
wouldn't  let  me  see.  There  was  no  need, 
he  said,  to  anticipate  damnation. 

It  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  made 
public;  but  as  yet,  beyond  an  obscure 
paragraph  in  the  Publisher  s  Circular, 
nothing  had  appeared  about  it  in  print. 
It  remained  an  open  secret. 

Then  Furnival  got  hold  of  it. 

Whether  it  was  simply  his  diabolic 
humor,  or  whether  he  had  a  subtler  and 
profounder  motive  (he  says  himself  he 
was  entirely  serious;  he  meant  to  make 
Burton  drop  it);  anyhow,  he  put  a  para- 
graph in  his  paper,  in  several  papers, 
announcing  that  Grevill  Burton  was 
engaged  simultaneously  on  the  Life 
and  Letters  of  Ford  Lankester  and  the 
Personal  Reminiscences  of  Mr.  Wrack- 
ham. 

Furnival  did  nothing  more  than  that. 
He  left  the  juxtaposition  to  speak  for 
itself,  and  his  paragraph  was  to  all  ap- 
pearances most  innocent  and  decorous. 
But  it  revived  the  old,  irresistible  comedy 
of  Charles  Wrackham;  it  let  loose  the 
young  demons  of  the  press;  they  were 
funnier  about  him  than  ever  (as  funny, 
that  is,  as  decency  allowed),  having  held 
themselves  in  so  long  over  the  obituary 
notices. 

And  Furnival  (there,  I  think,  his  fine 
motive  was  apparent)  took  care  to  bring 
their  ribald  remarks  under  Burton's  no- 
tice. Furny's  idea  evidently  was  to 
point  out  to  Burton  that  his  position 
was  untenable,  that  it  was  not  fitting 
that  the  same  man  should  deal  with  Mr. 
Wrackham  and  with  Ford  Lankester. 
He  had  to  keep  himself  clean  for  him. 


If  he  didn't  see  it,  he  must  be  made  to 
see. 

He  did  see  it.  He  came  to  me  one  eve- 
ning and  told  me  that  it  was  impossible. 
He  had  given  it  up. 

"Thank  God,"  I  said. 

He  smiled  grimly.  "God  doesn't  come 
into  it,"  he  said.  "It's  Lankester  I've 
given  up." 

"You  haven't!"  I  said. 

He  said  he  had. 

He  was  very  cool  and  calm  about  it, 
but  I  saw  in  his  face  the  marks  of  secret 
agitation.  He  had  given  Lankester  up, 
but  not  without  a  struggle.  I  didn't 
suppose  he  was  wriggling  out  of  the 
other  thing,  he  said.  He  couldn't  touch 
Lankester  after  Wrackham.  It  was  im- 
possible for  the  same  man  to  do  them 
both.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  Lankester 
or  his  widow.  He  had  made  himself 
unclean. 

Then  I  said  that,  if  that  was  the  way 
he  looked  at  it,  his  duty  was  clear.  He 
must  give  Wrackham  up. 

"Give  up  Antigone,  you  mean,"  he 
said. 

He  couldn't. 

Of  course  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of 
that  he  should  give  up  his  Lankester,  and 
the  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  muzzle 
Furnival's  young  men.  I  went  to  Furny 
the  next  day  and  told  him  plainly  that 
his  joke  had  gone  a  bit  too  far.  That  he 
knew  what  Burton  was  and  that  it 
wasn't  a  bit  of  good  trying  to  force  his 
hand. 

And  then  that  evening  I  went  on  to 
Antigone. 

She  said  I  was  just  in  time;  and  when 
I  asked  her  "For  what?"  she  said — to 
give  them  my  advice  about  her  father's 
Memoirs. 

I  told  her  that  was  precisely  what  I'd 
come  for,  and  she  asked  if  Grevill  had 
sent  me. 

I  said:  No,  he  hadn't.  I'd  come  for 
myself. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "he's  sent  them 
back." 

I  stared  at  her.  For  one  moment  I 
thought  that  he  had  done  the  only  sane 
thing  he  could  do,  that  he  had  made  my 
horrible  task  unnecessary. 

She  explained.  "He  wants  mamma 
and  me  to  go  over  them  again  and  see 


46 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


if  there  aren't  some  things  we'd  better 
leave  out." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "is  that  all?" 

I  must  have  struck  her  as  looking 
rather  queer,  for  she  said:  "All?  Why, 
whatever  did  you  think  it  was?" 

With  a  desperate  courage  I  dashed 
into  it  there  where  I  saw  my  opening. 
"I  thought  he'd  given  it  up." 

"Given  it  up?"  Her  dismay  showed 
me  what  I  had  yet  to  go  through. 

But  I  staved  it  off  a  bit.  I  tried  half- 
measures.  "Well,  yes,"  I  said:  "you 
see,  he's  frightfully  driven  with  his  Lan- 
kester  book." 

"But — we  said — we  wouldn't  have 
him  driven  for  the  world.  Papa  can 
wait.    He  has  waited." 

I  ignored  it  and  the  tragic  implica- 
tion. "You  see,"  I  said,  "Lankester's 
book's  awfully  important.  It  means 
no  end  to  him.  If  he  makes  the  fine 
thing  of  it  we  think  he  will,  it  '11 
place  him.  What's  more,  it  '11  place 
Lankester.  He's  still  —  as  far  as  the 
big  outside  public  is  concerned — wait- 
ing to  be  placed." 

"He  mustn't  wait,"  she  said.  "It's 
all  right.  Grevill  knows.  We  told  him 
he  was  to  do  Lankester  first." 

I  groaned.  "It  doesn't  matter,"  I 
said,  "which  he  does  first." 

"You  mean  he'll  be  driven  any- 
way: 

It  was  so  far  from  what  I  meant  that 
I  could  only  stare  at  her  and  at  her 
frightful  failure  to  perceive. 

I  remembered  Burton's  theory,  and  I 
put  it  to  her  point-blank.  Had  she  read 
all  of  the  Memoirs? 

She  flushed  slightly.  No,  she  said, 
not  all.    But  mamma  had. 

"Then"  (I  skirmished)  "you  don't 
really  know?" 

She  parried  it  with  "Mamma  knows." 

And  I  thrust.  "But,"  I  said,  "does 
your  mother  really  understand?" 

I  saw  her  wince.  "Do  you  mean," 
she  said,  "there  are  things — things  in  it 
that  had  better  be  kept  out?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "there  weren't  any 
'things'  in  it — " 

"There  couldn't  be,"  she  said,  superb- 
ly.   "Not  things  we'd  want  to  hide." 

I  said  there  weren't.  It  wasn't 
"things"  at  all.  I  shut  my  eyes  and 
went  at  it  head  downward. 


It  was,  somehow,  the  whole  thing. 

"The  whole  thing?"  she  said,  and  I 
saw  that  I  had  hit  her  hard. 

"The  whole  thing,"  I  said. 

She  looked  scared  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  rallied. 

"But  it's  the  whole  thing  we  want. 
He  wanted  it.  I  know  he  did.  He 
wanted  to  be  represented  completely  or 
not  at  all.  As  he  stood.  As  he  stood," 
she  reiterated. 

She  had  given  me  the  word  I  wanted. 
I  could  do  it  gently  now. 

"That's  it,"  I  said.  "These  Memoirs 
won't  represent  him." 

Subtlety,  diabolic  or  divine,  was  given 
me.  I  went  at  it  like  a  man  inspired. 
"They  won't  do  him  justice.  They'll 
do  him  harm." 

"Harm?"  She  breathed  it  with  an 
audible  fright. 

"Very  great  harm.  They  give  a 
wrong  impression,  an  impression  of — 

— 

I  left  it  to  her.  It  sank  in.  She  pon- 
dered it. 

"You  mean,"  she  said  at  last,  "the 
things  he  says  about  himself?" 

"  Precisely.  The  things  he  says  about 
himself.  I  doubt  if  he  really  intended 
them  all  for  publication." 

"It's  not  the  things  he  says  about 
himself  so  much,"  she  said.  "We 
could  leave  some  of  them  out.  It's 
what  Grevill  might  have  said  about 
him." 

That  was  awful;  but  it  helped  me;  it 
showed  me  where  to  plant  the  blow  that 
would  do  for  her,  poor  lamb. 

"My  dear  child,"  I  said  (I  was  very 
gentle,  now  that  I  had  come  to  it,  to  my 
butcher's  work),  "that's  what  I  want 
you  to  realize.  He'll — he'll  say  what  he 
can,  of  course;  but  he  can't  say  very 
much.  There — there  isn't  really  very 
much  to  say." 

She  took  it  in  silence.  She  was  too 
much  hurt,  I  thought,  to  see.  I  softened 
it,  and  made  it  luminous. 

"I  mean,"  I  said,  "for  Grevill  to 
say." 

She  saw. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  simply,  "he 
isn't  great  enough  ?" 

I  amended  it:  "For  Grevill." 

"Grevill — "  she  repeated.  I  shall 
never  forget  how  she  said  it.    It  was  as 


THE  WRACKHAM  MEMOIRS 


47 


if  her  voice  reached  out  and  touched  him 
tenderly. 

"Lankester  is  more  in  his  line/'  I  said. 
"It's  a  question  of  temperament,  of  fit- 
ness. 

She  said  she  knew  that. 

"And,"  I  said,  "of  proportion.  If  he 
says  what  you  want  him  to  say  about 
your  father,  what  can  he  say  about 
Lankester?" 

"But  if  he  does  Lankester  first?" 

"Then — if  he  says  what  you  want  him 
to  say — he  undoes  everything  he  has 
done  for  Lankester.  And,"  I  added, 
"he's  done  for." 

She  hadn't  seen  that  aspect  of  it,  for 
she  said,  "Grevill  is?" 

I  said  he  was,  of  course.  I  said  we  all 
felt  that  strongly;  Grevill  felt  it  him- 
self.   It  would  finish  him. 

Dear  Antigone,  I  saw  her  take  it.  She 
pressed  the  sword  into  her  heart.  "If — 
if  he  did  papa?  Is  it — is  it  as  bad  as  all 
that?" 

I  said  we  were  afraid  it  was — for 
Grevill. 

"And  is  he"  she  said,  "afraid?" 

"Not  for  himself,"  I  said,  and  she 
asked  me,  "For  whom,  then?"  And  I 
said,  "For  Lankester."  I  told  her  that 
was  what  I'd  meant  when  I  said  just 
now  that  he  couldn't  do  them  both. 
And  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  wasn't  going 
to  do  them  both.  He  had  given  up  one 
of  them. 

"Which?"  she  asked;  and  I  said  she 
might  guess  which. 

But  she  said  nothing.  She  sat  there 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  me  and  her  lips 
parted  slightly.  It  struck  me  that  she 
was  waiting  for  me,  in  her  dreadful  si- 
lence, as  if  her  life  hung  on  what  I  should 
say. 

"He  has  given  up  Lankester,"  I  said. 

I  heard  her  breath  go  through  her 
parted  lips  in  a  long  sigh  and  she  looked 
away  from  me. 

"He  cared,"  she  said,  "as  much  as 
that." 

"He  cared  for  you  as  much,"  I  said. 
I  was  a  little  doubtful  as  to  what  she 
meant.    But  I  know  now. 

She  asked  me  if  I  had  come  to  tell  her 
that. 

I  said  I  thought  it  was  as  well  she 
should  realize  it.    But  I'd  come  to  ask 


her — if  she  cared  for  him — to  let  him 
off.   To — to — 

She  stopped  me  with  it  as  I  fumbled, 
io  give  papa  upr 

I  said,  to  give  him  up  as  far  as  Grevill 
was  concerned. 

She  reminded  me  that  it  was  to  be 
Grevill  or  nobody. 

Then,  I  said,  it  had  much  better  be 
nobody,  if  she  didn't  want  to  do  her 
father  harm. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  looking 
steadily  at  the  fire  burning  in  the  grate. 
At  last  she  spoke. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  "will  never  give 
him  up." 

I  suggested  that  I  had  better  speak  to 
Mrs.  Wrackham. 

"No,"  she  said,  "don't.  She  won't 
understand."  She  rose.  "I  am  not  go- 
ing to  leave  it  to  mamma." 

She  went  to  the  fire  and  stirred  it  to 
a  furious  flame. 

"Grevill  will  be  here,"  she  said,  "in 
half  an  hour." 

She  walked  across  the  room — I  can 
see  her  going  now — holding  her  beautiful 
head  high.  She  locked  the  door  (I  was 
locked  in  with  Antigone).  She  went  to 
a  writing-table  where  the  Memoirs  lay 
spread  out  in  Parts;  she  took  them  and 
gathered  them  into  a  pile.  I  was  stand- 
ing by  the  hearth,  and  she  came  toward 
me;  I  can  see  her;  she  was  splendid, 
carrying  them  in  her  arms,  sacrificially. 
And  she  laid  them  on  the  fire. 

It  took  us  half  an  hour  to  burn  them. 
We  did  it  in  a  sort  of  sacred  silence. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  I  saw  her 
stand  there,  staring  at  a  bit  of  Wrack- 
ham's  handwriting  that  had  resisted  to 
the  last  the  purifying  flame,  I  tried  to 
comfort  her. 

"Angelette,"  I  said,  "don't  be  un- 
happy. That  was  the  kindest  thing  you 
could  do — and  the  best  thing,  believe 
me — to  your  father's  memory." 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "I  wasn't 
thinking — altogether — of  papa." 

I  may  add  that  her  mother  did  not 
understand,  and  that,  when  we  at  last 
unlocked  the  door,  we  had  a  terrible 
scene.  The  dear  lady  has  not  yet  for- 
given Antigone;  she  detests  her  son-in- 
law;  and  I'm  afraid  she  isn't  very  fond 
of  me. 


The  Price  of  Love 


A  NOVEL 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 

PART  1 


CHAPTER  I 

MONEY   IN   THE  HOUSE 

^^^^^^N  the  evening  dimness 
Wj^^W  of  old  Mrs.  Maldon's 
05  T  IB  sitting-room  stood  the 
Ifi  I  Ww  youtnful  virgin  Rachel 
Mj  1  Mm  Louisa  Fleckring.  The 
^S^^^^^^S  prominent  fact  about 
^S^MSj^^^s  herappearancewas  that 
she  wore  an  apron.  Not  one  of  those 
white,  waist-tied  aprons,  with  or  with- 
out bibs,  worn  proudly,  uncompromis- 
ingly, by  a  previous  generation  of 
unaspiring  housewives  and  housegirls! 
But  an  immense  blue  pinafore-apron, 
covering  the  whole  front  of  the  figure 
except  the  head,  hands,  and  toes.  Its 
virtues  were  that  it  fully  protected  the 
most  fragile  frock  against  all  the  perils 
of  the  kitchen;  and  that  it  could  be  slip- 
ped on  or  off  in  one  second,  without 
any  manipulation  of  tapes,  pins,  or  but- 
tons and  buttonholes  —  for  it  had  no 
fastenings  of  any  sort  and  merely  yawn- 
ed behind.  In  one  second  the  drudge 
could  be  transformed  into  the  elegant 
infanta  of  boudoirs,  and  vice  versa.  To 
suit  the  coquetry  of  the  age  the  pina- 
fore was  enriched  with  certain  flounc- 
ings,  which,  however,  only  intensified 
its  unshapen  ugliness. 

On  a  plain  middle-aged  woman  such 
a  pinafore  would  have  been  intolerable 
to  the  sensitive  eye.  But  on  Rachel 
it  simply  had  a  piquant  and  perverse 
air,  because  she  was  young,  with  the 
incomparable,  the  unique  charm  of 
comely  adolescence;  it  simply  excited 
the  imagination  to  conceive  the  ex- 
quisite treasures  of  contour  and  tint 
and  texture  which  it  veiled.  Do  not 
infer  that  Rachel  was  a  coquette.  Al- 
though comely,  she  was  homely  —  a 
"downright"  girl,  scorning  and  hating 


all  manner  of  pretentiousness.  She 
had  a  fine  best  dress,  and  when  she  put 
it  on  everybody  knew  that  it  was  her 
best;  a  stranger  would  have  known. 
Whereas  of  a  coquette  none  but  her 
intimate  companions  can  say  whether 
she  is  wearing  best  or  second-best  on 
a  given  high  occasion.  Rachel  used 
the  pinafore-apron  only  with  her  best 
dress,  and  her  reason  for  doing  so  was 
the  sound,  sensible  reason  that  it  was 
the  usual  and  proper  thing  to  do. 

She  opened  a  drawer  of  the  new 
Sheraton  sideboard,  and  took  from  it 
a  metal  tube  that  imitated  brass,  about 
a  foot  long  and  an  inch  in  diameter, 
covered  with  black  lettering.  This 
tube,  when  she  had  removed  its  top, 
showed  a  number  of  thin  wax  tapers 
in  various  colors.  She  chose  one,  lit  it 
neatly  at  the  red  fire,  and  then,  standing 
on  a  footstool  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
stretched  all  her  body  and  limbs  up- 
ward in  order  to  reach  the  gas.  If  the 
tap  had  been  half  an  inch  higher  or 
herself  half  an  inch  shorter,  she  would 
have  had  to  stand  on  a  chair  instead 
of  a  footstool;  and  the  chair  would  have 
had  to  be  brought  out  of  the  kitchen — 
and  carried  back  again.  But  Heaven 
had  watched  over  this  detail.  The 
gas-fitting  consisted  of  a  flexible  pipe, 
resembling  a  thick  black  cord,  and 
swinging  at  the  end  of  it  a  specimen  of 
that  wonderful  and  blessed  contrivance, 
the  inverted  incandescent  mantle  with- 
in a  porcelain  globe:  the  whole  recently 
adopted  by  Mrs.  Maldon  as  the  danger- 
ous final  word  of  modern  invention. 
It  was  safer  to  ignite  the  gas  from  the 
orifice  at  the  top  of  the  globe;  but  even 
so  there  was  always  a  mild  disconcerting 
explosion,  followed  by  a  few  moments' 
uncertainty  as  to  whether  or  not  the 
gas  had  "lighted  properly/' 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


49 


When  the  deed  was  accomplished  and 
the  room  suddenly  bright  with  soft 
illumination,  Mrs.  Maldon  murmured: 

"That's  better!" 

She  was  sitting  in  her  arm-chair  by 
the  glitteringly  set  table,  which,  in- 
stead of  being  in  the  center  of  the  floor 
under  the  gas,  had  a  place  near  the  bow- 
window — advantageous  in  the  murky 
daytime  of  the  Five  Towns,  and  incon- 
venient at  night.  The  table  might  well 
have  been  shifted  at  night  to  a  better 
position  in  regard  to  the  gas.  But  it 
never  was.  Somehow  for  Mrs.  Maldon 
the  carpet  was  solid  concrete,  and  the 
legs  of  the  table  immovably  imbedded 
therein. 

Rachel,  gentle  -  footed,  kicked  the 
footstool  away  to  its  lair  under  the 
table,  and  simultaneously  extinguished 
the  taper,  which  she  dropped  with  a 
scarce  audible  click  into  a  vase  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Then  she  put  the  cover 
on  the  tube  with  another  faintest  click, 
restored  the  tube  to  its  drawer  with  a 
rather  louder  click,  and  finally,  with  a 
click  still  louder,  pushed  the  drawer 
home.  All  these  slight  sounds  were 
familiar  to  Mrs.  Maldon;  they  were 
part  of  her  regular  night-life,  part  of  an 
unconsciously  loved  ritual,  and  they 
contributed  in  their  degree  to  her 
placid  happiness. 

"Now  the  blinds,  my  dear!',  said 
she. 

The  exhortation  was  ill-considered, 
and  Rachel  controlled  a  gesture  of 
amicable  impatience.  For  she  had 
not  paused  after  closing  the  drawer; 
she  was  already  on  her  way  across 
the  room  to  the  window  when  Mrs. 
Maldon  said,  "Now  the  blinds,  my 
dear!"  The  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Mal- 
don measured  the  time  between  the 
lighting  of  gas  and  the  drawing  down 
of  blinds  by  tenths  of  a  second  —  such 
was  her  fear  lest  in  that  sinister  in- 
terval the  whole  prying  town  might 
magically  gather  in  the  street  outside 
and  peer  into  the  secrets  of  her  incul- 
pable existence. 

When  the  blinds  and  curtains  had 
been  arranged  for  privacy,  Mrs.  Mal- 
don sighed  securely  and  picked  up  her 
crocheting.  Rachel  rested  her  hands 
on   the  table,  which  was  laid   for  a 


supper  for  four,  and  asked  in  a  firm, 
frank  voice  whether  there  was  anything 
else. 

"Because,  if  not,"  Rachel  added, 
"I'll  just  take  off  my  pinafore  and  wash 
my  hands." 

Mrs.  Maldon  looked  up  benevolently 
and  nodded  in  quick  agreement.  It 
was  such  apparently  trifling  gestures, 
eager  and  generous,  that  endeared  the 
old  lady  to  Rachel,  giving  her  the  price- 
less sensation  of  being  esteemed  and 
beloved.  Her  gaze  lingered  on  her  aged 
employer  with  affection  and  with  pro- 
found respect.  Mrs.  Maldon  made  a 
striking,  tall,  slim  figure,  sitting  erect  in 
tight  black,  with  the  right  side  of  her 
long,  prominent  nose  in  the  full  gaslight, 
and  the  other  heavily  shadowed.  Her 
hair  was  absolutely  black  at  over 
seventy;  her  eyes  were  black  and  glow- 
ing, and  she  could  read  and  do  coarse 
crocheting  without  spectacles.  All  her 
skin,  especially  round  about  the  eyes, 
was  yellowish  brown  and  very  deeply 
wrinkled  indeed;  a  decrepit,  senile  skin, 
which  seemed  to  contradict  the  youth 
of  her  pose  and  her  glance.  The  cast 
of  her  features  was  benign.  She  had 
passed  through  desolating  and  violent 
experiences,  and  then  through  a  long, 
long  period  of  withdrawn  tranquillity; 
and  from  end  to  end  of  her  life  she  had 
consistently  thought  the  best  of  all  men, 
refusing  to  recognize  evil  and  assuming 
the  existence  of  good.  Every  one  of 
the  millions  of  her  kind  thoughts  had 
helped  to  mold  the  expression  of  her 
countenance.  The  expression  was  def- 
inite now,  fixed,  intensely  character- 
istic after  so  many  decades,  and  where- 
ever  it  was  seen  it  gave  pleasure  and  by 
its  enchantment  created  goodness  and 
good-will — even  out  of  their  opposites. 
Such  was  the  life-work  of  Mrs.  Maldon. 

Her  eyes  embraced  the  whole  room. 
They  did  not,  as  the  phrase  is,  "beam" 
approval;  for  the  act  of  beaming  in- 
volves a  sort  of  ecstasy,  and  Mrs.  Mal- 
don was  too  dignified  for  ecstasy.  But 
they  displayed  a  mild  and  proud  con- 
tentment as  she  said: 

"I'm  sure  it's  all  very  nice." 

It  was.  The  table  crowded  with 
porcelain,  crystal,  silver,  and  flowers, 
and  every  object  upon  it  casting  a 
familiar  curved  shadow  on  the  white- 


50 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


ness  of  the  damask  toward  the  window! 
The  fresh  crimson  and  blues  of  the 
everlasting  Turkey  carpet  (Turkey  car- 
pet being  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  carpetry 
in  the  Five  Towns  when  that  carpet 
was  bought,  just  as  sealskin  was  the 
ne  -plus  ultra  of  all  furs) !  The  silken- 
polished  sideboard,  strange  to  the  com- 
pany, but  worthy  of  it,  and  exhibiting 
a  due  sense  of  its  high  destiny!  The 
somber  bookcase  and  corner  cupboard, 
darkly  glittering!  The  Chesterfield 
sofa,  broad,  accepting,  acquiescent! 
The  flashing  brass  fender  and  copper 
scuttle!  The  comfortably  reddish 
walls,  with  their  pictures — like  limpets 
on  the  face  of  precipices!  The  new- 
whitened  ceiling!  In  the  midst,  the  in- 
candescent lamp  that  hung  like  the 
moon  in  heaven!  ....  And  then  the 
young,  sturdy  girl,  standing  over  the 
old  woman  and  breathing  out  the  very 
breath  of  life,  vitalizing  everything, 
rejuvenating  the  old  woman! 

Mrs.  Maldon's  sitting-room  had  a 
considerable  renown  among  her  ac- 
quaintance not  only  for  its  peculiar 
charm,  which  combined  and  reconciled 
the  tastes  of  two  very  different  gener- 
ations, but  also  for  its  radiant  clean- 
ness. There  are  many  clean  houses  in 
the  Five  Towns,  using  the  adjective 
in  the  relative  sense  in  which  the  Five 
Towns  is  forced  by  chimneys  to  use  it. 
But  Mrs.  Maldon's  sitting-room  (save 
for  the  white  window-curtains,  which 
had  to  accept  the  common  gray  fate 
of  white  window-curtains  in  the  dis- 
trict) was  clean  in  the  countryside 
sense,  almost  in  the  Dutch  sense.  The 
challenge  of  its  cleanness  gleamed  on 
every  polished  surface,  victorious  in  the 
unending  battle  against  the  horrible 
contagion  of  foul  industries.  Mrs. 
Maldon's  friends  would  assert  that  the 
state  of  that  sitting-room  "passed" 
them,  or  "fair  passed"  them,  and  she 
would  receive  their  ever-amazed  com- 
pliments with  modesty.  But  behind 
her  benevolent  depreciation  she  would 
be  blandly  saying  to  herself:  "Yes, 
I'm  scarcely  surprised  it  passes  you — 
seeing  the  way  you  housewives  let 
things  go  on  here."  The  word  "here" 
would  be  faintly  emphasized  in  her 
mind,  as  no  native  would  have  em- 
phasized it. 


Rachel  shared  the  general  estimate 
of  the  sitting-room.  She  appreciated 
its  charm,  and  admitted  to  herself  that 
her  first  vision  of  it,  rather  less  than  a 
month  before,  had  indeed  given  her  a 
new  and  startling  ideal  of  cleanliness. 
On  that  occasion  it  had  been  evident, 
from  Mrs.  Maldon's  physical  exhaus- 
tion, that  the  house-mistress  had  made 
an  enormous  personal  effort  to  dazzle 
and  inspire  her  new  "lady-companion," 
which  effort,  though  detected  and  per- 
haps scorned  by  Rachel,  had  neverthe- 
less succeeded  in  its  aim.  With  a  certain 
presence  of  mind  Rachel  had  feigned 
to  remark  nothing  miraculous  in  the 
condition  of  the  room.  Appropriating 
the  new  ideal  instantly,  she  had  on  the 
first  morning  of  her  service  "turned 
out"  the  room  before  breakfast,  well 
knowing  that  it  must  have  been  turned 
out  on  the  previous  day.  Dumb- 
founded for  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Mal- 
don  had  at  length  said,  in  her  sweet 
and  cordial  benevolence:  "I'm  glad 
to  see  we  think  alike  about  cleanli- 
ness." And  Rachel  had  replied  with 
an  air  at  once  deferential,  sweet,  and 
yet  casual:  "Oh,  of  course,  Mrs. 
Maldon!"  Then  they  measured  one 
another  in  a  silent  exchange.  Mrs. 
Maldon  was  aware  that  she  had  by 
chance  discovered  a  pearl  —  yes,  a 
treasure  beyond  pearls.  And  Rachel, 
too,  divined  the  high  value  of  her  em- 
ployer, and  felt  within  the  stirrings  of  a 
passionate  loyalty  to  her. 

And  yet,  during  the  three  weeks  and 
a  half  of  their  joint  existence,  Rachel's 
estimate  of  Mrs.  Maldon  had  under- 
gone certain  subtle  modifications. 

At  first,  somewhat  overawed,  Rachel 
had  seen  in  her  employer  the  Mrs. 
Maldon  of  the  town's  legend,  which 
legend  had  traveled  to  Rachel  as  far 
as  Knype,  whence  she  sprang.  That  is 
to  say,  one  of  the  great  ladies  of  Bursley, 
ranking  in  the  popular  regard  with 
Mrs.  Clayton-Vernon,  the  leader  of 
society,  Mrs.  Sutton,  the  philanthro- 
pist, and  Mr.  Hamps,  the  powerful 
religious  bully.  She  had  been  impressed 
by  her  height  (Rachel  herself  being 
no  lamp-post),  her  carriage,  her  super- 
lative dignity,  her  benevolence  of 
thought,  and  above  all  by  her  aristo- 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


51 


cratic  Southern  accent.  After  eight- 
and  -  forty  years  of  the  Five  Towns, 
Mrs.  Maldon  had  still  kept  most  of 
that  Southern  accent — so  intimidating 
to  the  rough  broad  talkers  of  the  dis- 
trict, who  take  revenge  by  mocking  it 
among  themselves,  but  for  whom  it  will 
always  possess  the  thrilling  prestige  of 
high  life. 

And  then  day  by  day  Rachel  had 
discovered  that  great  ladies  are,  after 
all,  human  creatures,  strangely  resem- 
bling other  human  creatures.  And 
Mrs.  Maldon  slowly  became  for  her 
an  old  woman  of  seventy-two,  with 
unquestionably  wondrous  hair,  but  fail- 
ing in  strength  and  in  faculties;  and  it 
grew  merely  pathetic  to  Rachel  that 
Mrs.  Maldon  should  force  herself  always 
to  sit  straight  upright.  As  for  Mrs. 
Maldon's  charitableness,  Rachel  could 
not  deny  that  she  refused  to  think  evil, 
and  yet  it  was  plain  that  at  bottom 
Mrs.  Maldon  was  not  much  deceived 
about  people;  in  which  apparent  incon- 
sistency there  hid  a  slight  disturbing 
suggestion  of  falseness  that  mysteri- 
ously fretted  the  downright  Rachel. 

Again,  beneath  Mrs.  Maldon's  mod- 
esty concerning  the  merits  of  her  sitting- 
room  Rachel  soon  fancied  that  she  could 
detect  traces  of  an  ingenuous  and  possi- 
bly senile  "house-pride,"  which  did 
more  than  fret  the  lady-companion;  it 
faintly  offended  her.  That  one  should 
be  proud  of  a  possession  or  of  an  achieve- 
ment was  admissible,  but  that  one 
should  fail  to  conceal  the  pride  abso- 
lutely was  to  Rachel,  with  her  Five 
Towns  character,  a  sign  of  weakness,  a 
sign  of  the  soft  South.  Lastly,  Mrs. 
Maldon  had,  it  transpired,  her  "ways"; 
for  example,  in  the  matter  of  blinds  and 
in  the  matter  of  tapers.  She  would 
actually  insist  on  the  gas  being  lighted 
with  a  taper;  a  paper  spill,  which  was 
just  as  good  and  better,  seemed  to 
ruffle  her  benign  placidity;  and  she 
was  funnily  economical  with  matches. 
Rachel  had  never  seen  a  taper  before, 
and  could  not  conceive  where  the  old 
lady  managed  to  buy  the  things. 

In  short,  with  admiration  almost 
undiminished,  and  with  a  rapidly  grow- 
ing love  and  loyalty,  Rachel  had  ar- 
rived at  the  point  of  feeling  glad  that 
she,  a  mature,  capable,  sagacious  and 

Vol.  CXXVIII .— No.  763.-7 


strong  woman,  was  there  to  watch 
over  the  last  years  of  the  waning  and 
somewhat  peculiar  old  lady. 

Mrs.  Maldon  did  not  see  the  situation 
from  quite  the  same  angle.  She  did 
not,  for  example,  consider  herself  to  be 
in  the  least  peculiar;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, a  very  normal  woman.  She  had 
always  used  tapers;  she  could  remember 
the  period  when  everyone  used  tapers. 
In  her  view  tapers  were  far  more  genteel 
and  less  dangerous  than  the  untidy, 
flaring  spill,  which  she  abhorred  as  a 
vulgarity.  As  for  matches,  frankly  it 
would  not  have  occurred  to  her  to 
waste  a  match  when  fire  was  available. 
In  the  matter  of  her  sharp  insistence 
on  drawn  blinds  at  night,  domestic 
privacy  seemed  to  be  one  of  the  funda- 
mental decencies  of  life — simply  that! 
And  as  for  house-pride,  she  considered 
that  she  locked  away  her  fervent  feel- 
ing for  her  parlor  in  a  manner  mar- 
velous and  complete. 

No  one  could  or  ever  would  guess  the 
depth  of  her  attachment  to  that  sit- 
ting-room, nor  the  extent  to  which  it 
engrossed  her  emotional  life.  And  yet 
she  had  only  occupied  the  house  for 
fourteen  years  out  of  the  forty-five 
years  of  her  widowhood,  and  the  furni- 
ture had  at  intervals  been  renewed 
(for  Mrs.  Maldon  would  on  no  account 
permit  herself  to  be  old-fashioned).  In- 
deed, she  had  had  five  different  sitting- 
rooms  in  five  different  houses  since  her 
husband's  death.  No  matter —  They 
were  all  the  same  sitting-room,  all 
rendered  identical  by  the  mysterious 
force  of  her  dreamy  meditations  on  the 
past.  And,  moreover,  sundry  impor- 
tant articles  had  remained  constant  to 
preserve  unbroken  the  chain  that  linked 
her  to  her  youth.  The  table  which 
Rachel  had  so  nicely  laid  was  the  table 
at  which  Mrs.  Maldon  had  taken  her 
first  meal  as  mistress  of  a  house.  Her 
husband  had  carved  mutton  at  it,  and 
grumbled  about  the  consistency  of 
toast;  her  children  had  spilt  jam  on  its 
cloth.  And  when  on  Sunday  nights 
she  wound  up  the  bracket-clock  on  the 
mantelpiece,  she  could  see  and  hear 
a  handsome  young  man,  in  a  long  frock  - 
coat  and  a  large  shirt-front  and  a  very 
thin,  black  tie,  winding  it  up  too — 
her  husband — on  Sunday  nights.  And 


52 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


she  could  simultaneously  see  another 
handsome  young  man  winding  it  up — 
her  son. 

Her  pictures  were  admired. 

"Your  son  painted  this  water-color, 
did  he  not,  Mrs.  Maldon?" 

"Yes,  my  son  Athelstan." 

"How  gifted  he  must  have  been!" 

"Yes,  the  best  judges  say  he  showed 
very  remarkable  promise.  It's  fading, 
I  fear.  I  ought  to  cover  it  up,  but 
somehow  I  can't  fancy  covering  it 
up — 

The  hand  that  had  so  remarkably 
promised  had  lain  moldering  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century.  Mrs.  Maldon 
sometimes  saw  it,  fleshless,  on  a  cage- 
like skeleton  in  the  dark  grave.  The 
next  moment  she  would  see  herself 
tending  its  chilblains. 

And  if  she  was  not  peculiar,  neither 
was  she  waning.  No!  Seventy-two 
— but  not  truly  old!  How  could  she 
be  truly  old  when  she  could  see,  hear, 
walk  a  mile  without  stopping,  eat 
anything  whatever,  and  dress  herself 
unaided?  And  that  hair  of  hers!  Often 
she  was  still  a  young  wife,  or  a  young 
widow.  She  was  not  preparing  for 
death;  she  had  prepared  for  death  in 
the  seventies.  She  expected  to  live 
on  in  calm  satisfaction  through  indefi- 
nite decades.  She  savored  life  pleas- 
antly, for  its  daily  security  was  im- 
pregnable.   She  had  forgotten  grief. 

When  she  looked  up  at  Rachel  and 
benevolently  nodded  to  her,  she  saw 
a  girl  of  fine  character,  absolutely  trust- 
worthy, very  devoted,  very  industrious, 
very  capable,  intelligent,  cheerful  — 
in  fact,  a  splendid  girl,  a  girl  to  be  en- 
thusiastic about!  But  such  a  mere 
girl!  A  girl  with  so  much  to  learn! 
So  pathetically  young  and  inexperi- 
enced and  positive  and  sure  of  herself! 
The  looseness  of  her  limbs,  the  un- 
conscious abrupt  freedom  of  her  ges- 
tures, the  waviness  of  her  auburn  hair, 
the  candor  of  her  glance,  the  warmth 
of  her  indignation  against  injustice 
and  dishonesty,  the  capricious  and 
sensitive  flowings  of  blood  to  her 
smooth  cheeks,  the  ridiculous  wise  corn- 
pressings  of  her  lips,  the  rise  and  fall 
of  her  rich  and  innocent  bosom — these 
phenomena  touched  Mrs.  Maldon  and 
occasionally  made  her  want  to  cry. 


Thought  she:  "/  was  never  so  young 
as  that  at  twenty-two!  At  twenty-two 
I  had  had  Mary!"  The  possibility  that 
in  spite  of  having  had  Mary  (who  would 
now  have  been  fifty  but  for  death), 
she  had  as  a  fact  been  approximately 
as  young  as  that  at  twenty-two  did  not 
ever  present  itself  to  the  waning  and 
peculiar  old  lady.  She  was  glad  that 
she,  a  mature  and  profoundly  experi- 
enced woman  in  full  possession  of  all 
her  faculties,  was  there  to  watch  over 
the  development  of  the  lovable,  af- 
fectionate, and  impulsive  child. 

"Oh!  Here's  th  e  paper,  Mrs.  Mal- 
don," said  Rachel  as,  turning  away  to 
leave  the  room,  she  caught  sight  of  the 
extra  -  special  edition  of  the  Signal, 
which  lay  a  pale  green  on  the  dark  green 
of  the  Chesterfield. 

Mrs.  Maldon  answered,  placidly: 

"When  did  you  bring  it  in?  I  nev- 
er heard  the  boy  come.  But  my  hear- 
ing's not  quite  what  it  used  to  be,  that's 
true.  Open  it  for  me,  my  dear.  I  can't 
stretch  my  arms  as  I  used  to." 

She  was  one  of  the  few  women  in  the 
Five  Towns  who  deigned  to  read  a  news- 
paper regularly,  and  one  of  the  still 
fewer  who  would  lead  the  miscellaneous 
conversation  of  drawing-rooms  away 
from  domestic  chatter  and  discussions 
of  individualities  to  political  and  mu- 
nicipal topics  and  even  toward  general 
ideas.  She  seldom  did  more  than 
mention  a  topic  and  then  express  a  hope 
for  the  best,  or  explain  that  this  phe- 
nomenon was  "such  a  pity,"  or  that 
phenomenon  "such  a  good  thing,"  or 
that  about  another  phenomenon  "one 
really  didn't  know  what  to  think." 
But  these  remarks  sufficed  to  class  her 
apart  among  her  sex  as  "a  very  up- 
to-date  old  lady;  with  a  broad  outlook 
upon  the  world,  and  to  inspire  sundry 
other  ladies  with  a  fearful  respect  for 
her  masculine  intellect  and  judgment. 
She  was  aware  of  her  superiority,  and 
had  a  certain  kind  disdain  for  the  in- 
creasing number  of  women  who  took  in 
a  daily  picture-paper,  and  who,  having 
dawdled  over  its  illustrations  after 
breakfast,  spoke  of  what  they  had  seen 
in  the  "newspaper."  She  would  not 
allow  that  a  picture-paper  was  a  news- 
paper. 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


53 


Rachel  stood  in  the  empty  space 
under  the  gas.  Her  arms  were  stretched 
out  and  slightly  upward  as  she  held 
the  Signal  wide  open  and  glanced  at 
the  newspaper,  frowning.  The  light 
fell  full  on  her  coppery  hair.  Her 
balanced  body,  though  masked  in  front 
by  the  perpendicular  fall  of  the  apron 
as  she  bent  somewhat  forward,  was 
nevertheless  the  image  of  potential 
vivacity  and  energy;  it  seemed  almost 
to  vibrate  with  its  own  consciousness 
of  physical  pride. 

Left  alone,  Rachel  would  never  have 
opened  a  newspaper,  at  any  rate  for 
the  news.  Until  she  knew  Mrs.  Mal- 
don  she  had  never  seen  a  woman  read 
a  newspaper  for  aught  except  the  ad- 
vertisements relating  to  situations, 
houses,  and  pleasures.  But,  much  more 
than  she  imagined,  she  was  greatly 
under  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Maldon. 
Mrs.  Maldon  made  a  nightly  solemnity 
of  the  newspaper,  and  Rachel  naturally 
soon  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  a 
fine  and  a  superior  thing  to  read  the 
newspaper  —  a  proof  of  unusual  intel- 
ligence. Moreover,  just  as  she  felt 
bound  to  show  Mrs.  Maldon  that  her 
notion  of  cleanliness  was  as  advanced 
as  anybody's,  so  she  felt  bound  to  in- 
dicate, by  an  appearance  of  casualness, 
that  for  her  to  read  the  paper  was  the 
most  customary  thing  in  the  world. 
Of  course  she  read  the  paper!  And 
that  she  should  calmly  look  at  it  her- 
self before  handing  it  to  her  mistress 
proved  that  she  had  already  estab- 
lished a  very  secure  position  in  the 
house. 

She  said,  her  eyes  following  the  lines, 
and  her  feet  moving  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Maldon: 

"Those  burglaries  are  still  going  on 
.  .  .  Hillport  now!" 

"Oh,  dear,  dear!"  murmured  Mrs. 
Maldon,  as  Rachel  spread  the  news- 
paper lightly  over  the  tea-tray  and  its 
contents:  "Oh,  dear,  dear!  I  do  hope 
the  police  will  catch  some  one  soon. 
I'm  sure  they're  doing  their  best,  but 
really—!" 

Rachel  bent  with  confident  intimacy 
over  the  old  lady's  shoulder,  and  they 
read  the  burglary  column  together, 
Rachel  interrupting  herself  for  an  in- 
stant to  pick  up  Mrs.  Maldon's  ball 


of  black  wool  which  had  slipped  to  the 
floor. 

The  Signal  reporter  had  omitted  none 
of  the  classic  cliches  proper  to  the 
subject,  and  such  words  and  phrases 
as  "jimmy,"  "effected  an  entrance," 
"the  servant  now  thoroughly  alarmed," 
"stealthy  footsteps,"  "escaped  with 
their  booty,"  seriously  disquieted  both 
of  the  women — caused  a  sudden  sensa- 
tion of  sinking  in  the  region  of  the  heart. 
Yet  neither  would  put  the  secret  fear 
into  speech,  for  each  by  instinct  felt 
that  a  fear  once  uttered  is  strengthened 
and  made  more  real.  Living  solitary 
and  unprotected  by  male  sinews,  in  a 
house  which,  though  it  did  not  stand 
alone,  was  somewhat  withdrawn  from 
the  town,  they  knew  themselves  the 
ideal  prey  of  conventional  burglars 
with  masks,  dark  lanterns,  revolvers, 
and  jimmies.  They  were  grouped  to- 
gether like  some  symbolic  sculpture, 
and  with  all  their  fortitude  and  com- 
mon-sense they  still  in  unconscious 
attitude  expressed  the  helpless  and 
resigned  fatalism  of  their  sex  before 
certain  menaces  of  bodily  danger,  the 
thrilled,  expectant  submission  of  women 
in  a  city  about  to  be  sacked. 

Nothing  could  save  them  if  the  peril 
entered  the  house.  But  they  would 
not  say  aloud:  "Suppose  they  came 
here!  How  terrible!"  They  would  not 
even  whisper  the  slightest  apprehension. 
They  just  briefly  discussed  the  matter 
with  a  fine  air  of  indifferent  aloofness, 
remaining  calm  while  the  brick  walls 
and  the  social  system  which  defended 
that  bright  and  delicate  parlor  from  the 
dark,  savage  universe  without  seemed 
to  crack  and  shiver. 

Mrs.  Maldon,  suddenly  noticing  that 
one  blind  was  half  an  inch  short  of  the 
bottom  of  the  window,  rose  nervously 
and  pulled  it  down  further. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  me  to  do  that?" 
said  Rachel,  thinking  what  a  fidgety 
person  the  old  lady  was. 

Mrs.  Maldon  replied: 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear.  Did  you 
fasten  the  window  on  the  up-stairs 
landing?" 

"As  if  burglars  would  try  to  get  in 
by  an  up-stairs  window — and  on  the 
street!"  thought  Rachel,  pityingly  im- 
patient.    "However,  it's  her  house  and 


54 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


I'm  paid  to  do  what  I'm  told,"  she 
added  to  herself,  very  sensibly.  Then 
she  said,  aloud,  in  a  soothing  tone: 

"No,  I  didn't.    But  I  will  do  it." 

She  moved  toward  the  door,  and  at 
the  same  moment  a  knock  on  the  front 
door  sent  a  vibration  through  the  whole 
house.  Nearly  all  knocks  on  the  front 
door  shook  the  house;  and  further, 
burglars  do  not  generally  knock  as  a 
preliminary  to  effecting  an  entrance. 
Nevertheless,  both  women  started — 
and  were  ashamed  of  starting. 

"Surely  he's  rather  early!'5  said  Mrs. 
Maldon  with  an  exaggerated  tran- 
quillity. 

And  Rachel,  with  a  similar  lack  of 
conviction  in  her  calm  gait,  went  auda- 
ciously forth  into  the  dark  lobby. 

On  the  glass  panels  of  the  front  door 
the  street-lamp  threw  a  faint,  distorted 
shadow  of  a  bowler  hat,  two  rather  pro- 
truding ears,  and  a  pair  of  long,  out- 
spreading whiskers  whose  ends  merged 
into  broad  shoulders.  Any  one  famil- 
iar with  the  streets  of  Bursley  would 
have  instantly  divined  that  Councilor 
Thomas  Batchgrew  stood  between  the 
gas-lamp  and  the  front  door.  And 
even  Rachel,  whose  acquaintance  with 
Bursley  was  still  slight,  at  once  recog- 
nized the  outlines  of  the  figure.  She 
had  seen  Councilor  Batchgrew  one  day 
conversing  with  Mrs.  Maldon  in  Moor- 
thorne  Road,  and  she  knew  that  he 
bore  to  Mrs.  Maldon  the  vague  but 
imposing  relation  of  "trustee." 

There  are  many — indeed,  perhaps  too 
many  —  remarkable  men  in  the  Five 
Towns.  Thomas  Batchgrew  was  one 
of  them.  He  had  begun  life  as  a  small 
plumber  in  Bursley  market-place,  living 
behind  and  above  the  shop,  and  beget- 
ting a  considerable  family  which  ex- 
ercised itself  in  the  back  yard  among 
empty  and  full  turpentine-cans.  The 
original  premises  survived,  as  a  branch 
establishment,  and  Batchgrew's  latest- 
married  grandson  condescended  to  re- 
side on  the  first  floor,  and  to  keep  a 
motor-car  and  a  tri-car  in  the  back 
yard,  now  roofed  over  (in  a  manner 
not  strictly  conforming  to  the  building 
by-laws  of  the  borough).  All  Batch- 
grew's sons  and  daughters  were  mar- 
ried, and  several  of  his  grandchildren 


also.  And  all  his  children,  and  more 
than  one  of  the  grandchildren,  kept 
motor-cars.  Not  a  month  passed  but 
some  Batchgrew,  or  some  Batchgrew's 
husband  or  child,  bought  a  motor-car, 
or  sold  one,  or  exchanged  a  small  one 
for  a  larger  one,  or  had  an  accident,  or 
was  gloriously  fined  in  some  distant 
part  of  the  country  for  illegal  driving. 
Nearly  all  of  them  had  spacious  de- 
tached houses,  with  gardens  and  gar- 
deners, and  patent  slow  -  combustion 
grates,  and  porcelain  bath-rooms  com- 
prising every  appliance  for  luxurious 
splashing.  And,  with  the  exception 
of  one  son  who  had  been  assisted  to 
Valparaiso  in  order  that  he  might  there 
seek  death  in  the  tankard  without 
outraging  the  family,  they  were  all 
teetotalers — because  the  old  man,  "old 
Jack,"  was  a  teetotaler.  The  family 
pyramid  was  based  firm  on  the  old 
man.  The  numerous  relatives  held 
closely  together  like  an  alien  oligar- 
chical caste  in  a  conquered  country. 
If  they  ever  did  quarrel,  it  must  have 
been  in  private. 

The  principal  seat  of  business — 
electrical  apparatus,  heating  apparatus, 
and  decorating  and  plumbing  on  a 
grandiose  scale — in  Hanbridge,  had 
over  its  immense  windows  the  sign: 
"John  Batchgrew  &  Sons."  The  sign 
might  well  have  read:  "John  Batch- 
grew  &  Sons,  Daughters,  Daughters- 
in-law,  Sons-in-law,  Grandchildren  and 
Great-grandchildren."  The  Batchgrew 
partners  were  always  tendering  for,  and 
often  winning,  some  big  contract  or 
other  for  heating  and  lighting  and  em- 
bellishing a  public  building  or  a  man- 
sion or  a  manufactory.  (They  by  no 
means  confined  their  activities  to  the 
Five  Towns,  having  an  address  in 
London,  and  another  in  Valparaiso.) 
And  small  private  customers  were  ever 
complaining  of  the  inaccuracy  of  their 
accounts  for  small  jobs.  People  who, 
in  the  age  of  Queen  Victoria's  earlier 
widowhood,  had  sent  for  Batchgrew 
to  repair  a  burst  spout,  still  by  force 
of  habit  sent  for  Batchgrew  to  repair  a 
burst  spout,  and  still  had  to  "call  at 
Batchgrew's"  about  mistakes  in  the 
bills,  which  mistakes,  after  much  argu- 
ment and  asseveration,  were  occasion- 
ally put  right.    In  spite  of  their  pro- 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


55 


digious  expenditures,  and  of  a  certain 
failure  on  the  part  of  the  public  to 
understand  "where  all  the  money  came 
from,"  the  financial  soundness  of  the 
Batchgrews  was  never  questioned.  In 
discussing  the  Batchgrews  no  bank- 
manager  and  no  lawyer  had  ever  by 
an  intonation  or  a  movement  of  the 
eyelid  hinted  that  earthquakes  had 
occurred  before  in  the  history  of  the 
world  and  might  occur  again. 

And  yet  old  Batchgrew — admittedly 
the  cleverest  of  the  lot,  save  possibly 
the  Valparaiso  soaker — could  not  be 
said  to  attend  assiduously  to  business. 
He  scarcely  averaged  two  hours  a  day 
on  the  premises  at  Hanbridge.  Indeed, 
the  staff  there  had  a  sense  of  the  un- 
usual, inciting  to  unusual  energy  and 
devotion,  when  word  went  round: 
"Guv'nor's  in  the  office  with  Mr. 
John."  The  Councilor  was  always 
extremely  busy  with  something  other 
than  his  main  enterprise.  It  was  now 
reported,  for  example,  that  he  was 
clearing  vast  sums  out  of  picture- 
palaces  in  Wigan  and  Warrington. 
Also  he  was  a  religionist,  being  Chair- 
man of  the  local  Church  of  England 
Village  Mission  Fund.  And  he  was  a 
politician,  powerful  in  municipal  af- 
fairs. And  he  was  a  reformer,  who 
believed  that  by  abolishing  beer  he 
could  abolish  the  poverty  of  the  poor — 
and  acted  accordingly.  And  lastly  he 
liked  to  enjoy  himself. 

Everybody  knew  by  sight  his  flying 
white  whiskers  and  protruding  ears. 
And  he  himself  was  well  aware  of  the 
steady  advertising  value  of  those  whis- 
kers— of  always  being  recognizable  half 
a  mile  ofF.  He  met  everybody  un- 
flinchingly, for  he  felt  that  he  was 
invulnerable  at  all  points  and  sure  of  a 
magnificent  obituary.  He  was  invari- 
ably treated  with  marked  deference 
and  respect.  But  he  was  not  an 
honest  man.  He  knew  it.  All  his 
family  knew  it.  In  business  every- 
body knew  it  except  a  few  nincompoops. 
Scarcely  any  one  trusted  him.  The 
peculiar  fashion  in  which,  when  he  was 
not  present,  people  "old  Jacked"  him 
— this  alone  was  enough  to  condemn 
a  man  of  his  years.  Lastly,  everybody 
knew  that  most  of  the  Batchgrew  family 
was  of  a  piece  with  its  head. 


Now  Rachel  had  formed  a  prej- 
udice against  old  Batchgrew.  She  had 
formed  it,  immutably,  in  a  single 
second  of  time.  One  glance  at  him 
in  the  street — and  she  had  tried  and 
condemned  him,  according  to  the  sum- 
mary justice  of  youth.  She  was  in  that 
stage  of  plenary  and  unhesitating  wis- 
dom when  one  not  only  can,  but  one 
must,  divide  the  whole  human  race 
sharply  into  two  categories,  the  sheep 
and  the  goats;  and  she  had  sentenced 
old  Batchgrew  to  a  place  on  the  extreme 
left.  It  happened  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing against  him.  But  she  did  not 
require  evidence.  She  simply  did  "not 
like  that  man' — (she  italicized  the  end 
of  the  phrase  bitingly  to  herself) — ■ 
and  there  was  no  appeal  against  the 
verdict.  Angels  could  not  have  suc- 
cessfully interceded  for  him  in  the 
courts  of  her  mind.  He  never  guessed, 
in  his  aged  self-sufficiency,  that  his  case 
was  hopeless  with  Rachel,  nor  even  that 
the  child  had  dared  to  have  any  opinion 
about  him  at  all. 

She  was  about  to  slip  off  the  pinafore- 
apron  and  drop  it  onto  the  oak  chest 
that  stood  in  the  lobby.  But  she 
thought  with  defiance:  "Why  should 
I  take  my  pinafore  off"  for  him?  I 
won't.  He  sha'n't  see  my  nice  frock. 
Let  him  see  my  pinafore.  I  am  an 
independent  woman,  earning  my  own 
living,  and  why  should  I  be  ashamed  of 
my  pinafore?  My  pinafore  is  good 
enough  for  him!"  She  also  thought: 
"Let  him  wait!"  And  went  ofF  into 
the  kitchen  to  get  the  modern  appliance 
of  the  match  for  lighting  the  gas  in  the 
lobby.  When  she  had  lighted  the  gas 
she  opened  the  front  door  with  auda- 
cious but  nervous  deliberation,  and  the 
famous  character  impatiently  walked 
straight  in.  He  wore  prominent  loose 
black  kid  gloves  and  a  thin  black  over- 
coat. 

Looking  coolly  at  her,  he  said: 
"So  you're  the  new  lady-companion, 
young  miss!    Well,  I've  heard  rare  ac- 
counts on  ye  —  rare  accounts  on  ye! 
Missis  is  in,  I  reckon." 

His  voice  was  extremely  low,  rich, 
and  heavy.  It  descended  on  the  silence 
like  a  thick  lubricating  oil  that  only 
reluctantly  abandons  the  curves  in 
which  it  fell. 


56 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


And  Rachel  answered,  faintly,  trem- 
ulously: "Yes." 

No  longer  was  she  the  independent 
woman,  censorious  and  scornful,  but  a 
silly,  timid  little  thing.  Though  she 
condemned  herself  savagely  for  school- 
girlishness,  she  could  do  nothing  to 
arrest  the  swift  change  in  her.  The 
fact  was,  she  was  abashed,  partly  by 
the  legendary  importance  of  the  re- 
nowned Batchgrew,  but  more  by  his 
physical  presence.  His  mere  presence 
was  always  disturbing;  for  when  he 
supervened  into  an  environment  he 
had  always  the  air  of  an  animal  on  a 
voyage  of  profitable  discovery.  His 
nose  was  an  adventurous  sniffing  nose, 
a  true  nose,  which  exercised  the  original 
and  proper  functions  of  a  nose  noisily. 
His  limbs  were  restless,  his  boots  like 
hoofs.  His  eyes  were  as  restless  as  his 
limbs,  and  seemed  ever  to  be  seeking 
for  something  upon  which  they  could 
definitely  alight,  and  not  finding  it. 
He  performed  eructations  with  the 
disarming  naturalness  of  a  baby.  He 
was  tall  but  not  stout,  and  yet  he  filled 
the  lobby;  he  was  the  sole  fact  in  the 
lobby,  and  it  was  as  though  Rachel 
had  to  crush  herself  against  the  wall  in 
order  to  make  room  for  him. 

His  glance  at  Rachel  now  became 
inquisitive,  calculating.  It  seemed  to 
be  saying:  "One  day  I  may  be  able 
to  make  use  of  this  piece  of  goods." 
But  there  was  a  certain  careless  good- 
humor  in  it,  too.  What  he  saw  was  a 
naive  young  maid,  with  agreeable  fea- 
tures, and  a  fine,  fresh  complexion,  and 
rather  reddish  hair.  (He  did  not  ap- 
prove of  the  color  of  the  hair.)  He 
found  pleasure  in  regarding  her,  and 
in  the  perception  that  he  had  abashed 
her.  Yes,  he  liked  to  see  her  timid 
and  downcast  before  him.  He  was  an 
old  man,  but  like  most  old  men — such 
as  statesmen — who  have  lived  con- 
stantly at  the  full  pressure  of  following 
their  noses,  he  was  also  a  young  man. 
He  creaked,  but  he  was  not  gravely 
impaired. 

"Is  it  Mr.  Batchgrew?"  Rachel  softly 
murmured  the  unnecessary  question, 
with  one  hand  on  the  knob  ready  to 
open  the  sitting-room  door. 

He  had  flopped  his  stiff,  flat-topped 
felt  hat  on  the  oak  chest,  and  was 


taking  off  his  overcoat.  He  paused 
and,  lifting  his  chin — and  his  incredible 
white  whiskers  with  it,  gazed  at  Rachel 
almost  steadily  for  a  couple  of  seconds. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  as  it  were  challeng- 
ingly — "it  is,  young  miss." 

Then  he  finished  removing  his  over- 
coat and  thrust  it  roughly  down  on  the 
hat. 

Rachel  blushed  as  she  modestly 
turned  the  knob  and  pushed  the  door 
so  that  he  might  pass  in  front  of  her. 

"Here's  Mr.  Batchgrew,  Mrs.  Mal- 
don,"  she  announced,  feebly  endeavor- 
ing to  raise  and  clear  her  voice. 

"Bless  us!"  The  astonished  excla- 
mation of  Mrs.  Maldon  was  heard. 

And  Councilor  Batchgrew,  with  his 
crimson,  shiny  face,  and  the  vermilion 
rims  round  his  unsteady  eyes,  and  his 
elephant  ears,  and  the  absurd  streaming 
of  his  white  whiskers,  and  his  mul- 
titudinous noisiness,  and  his  black 
kid  gloves,  strode  half-theatrically  past 
her,  sniffing. 

To  Rachel  he  was  an  object  odious, 
almost  obscene.  In  truth,  she  had  little 
mercy  on  old  men  in  general,  who  as 
a  class  struck  her  as  fussy,  ridiculous, 
and  repulsive.  And  beyond  all  the 
old  men  she  had  ever  seen,  she  dis- 
liked Councilor  Batchgrew.  And 
about  Councilor  Batchgrew  what  she 
most  detested  was,  perhaps  strangely, 
his  loose,  wrinkled  black  kid  gloves. 
They  were  ordinary,  harmless  black  kid 
gloves,  but  she  counted  them  against 
him  as  a  supreme  offense. 

"Conceited,  self-conscious,  horrid  old 
brute!"  she  thought,  discreetly  drawing 
the  door  to,  and  then  going  into  the 
kitchen.  "He's  interested  in  nothing 
and  nobody  but  himself."  She  felt  pro- 
tective towards  Mrs.  Maldon,  that 
simpleton  who  apparently  could  not  see 
through  a  John  Batchgrew!  ...  So 
Mrs.  Maldon  had  been  giving  him  good 
accounts  of  the  new  lady  -  companion, 
had  she! 

"Well,  Lizzie  Maldon,"  said  Coun- 
cilor Batchgrew  as  he  crossed  the 
sitting-room,  "how  d'ye  find  your- 
self? .  .  .  Sings!"  he  went  on,  taking 
Mrs.  Maldon's  hand  with  a  certain 
negligence  and  at  the  same  time  fixing 
an  unfriendly  eye  on  the  gas. 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


57 


Mrs.  Maldon  had  risen  to  welcome 
him  with  the  punctilious  warmth  due 
to  an  old  gentleman,  a  trustee,  and 
a  notability.  She  told  him  as  to  her 
own  health  and  inquired  about  his. 
But  he  ignored  her  smooth  utterances, 
in  the  ardor  of  following  his  nose. 

" Sings  worse  than  ever!  Very  un- 
healthy, too!  Haven't  I  told  ye  and 
told  ye?  You  ought  to  let  me  put 
electricity  in  for  you.  It  isn't  as  if 
it  wasn't  your  own  house.  .  .  .  Pay  ye! 
Pay  ye  over  and  over  again!" 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  table, 
drew  off  his  loose  black  gloves,  and 
after  letting  them  hover  irresolutely 
over  the  encumbered  table,  deposited 
them  for  safety  in  the  china  slop-basin. 

"I  dare  say  you're  quite  right,"  said 
Mrs.  Maldon  with  grave  urbanity. 
"But  really  gas  suits  me  very  well. 
And  you  know  the  gas-manager  com- 
plains so  much  about  the  competition 
of  electricity.  Truly  it  does  seem  un- 
fair, doesn't  it,  as  they  both  belong 
to  the  town!  If  I  gave  up  gas  for 
electricity  I  don't  think  I  could  look 
the  poor  man  in  the  face  at  church. 
And  all  these  changes  cost  money! 
How  is  dear  Enid?" 

Mr.  Batchgrew  had  now  stretched 
out  his  legs  and  crossed  one  over  the 
other;  and  he  was  twisting  his  thumbs 
on  his  diaphragm. 

"Enid?  Oh!  Enid!  Well,  I  did  hear 
she's  able  to  nurse  the  child  at  last." 
He  spoke  of  his  granddaughter-in-law 
as  of  one  among  a  multiplicity  of  women 
about  whose  condition  vague  rumors 
reached  him  at  intervals. 

Mrs.  Maldon  breathed  fervently: 

"I'm  so  thankful!  What  a  blessing 
that  is,  isn't  it?" 

"As  for  costing  money,  Elizabeth," 
Mr.  Batchgrew  proceeded,  "you'll  be 
all  right  now  for  money."  He  paused, 
sat  up  straight  with  puffings,  and 
leaned  sideways  against  the  table. 
Then  he  said,  half  fiercely: 

"I've  settled  up  th'  Brougham  Street 
mortgage." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  Mrs.  Maldon 
was  startled. 

"I  do!" 

^When?" 

"To-day." 

"Well—" 


"That's  what  I  stepped  in  for." 

Mrs.  Maldon  feebly  murmured,  with 
obvious  emotion: 

"You  can't  imagine  what  a  relief  it 
is  to  me!"  Tears  shone  in  her  dark, 
mild  eyes. 

"Look  ye!"  exclaimed  the  trustee, 
curtly. 

He  drew  from  his  breast  pocket  a 
bank  envelope  of  linen,  and  then, 
glancing  at  the  table,  pushed  cups 
and  saucers  abruptly  away  to  make 
a  clear  space  on  the  white  cloth.  The 
newspaper  slipped  rustling  to  the  floor 
on  the  side  near  the  window.  Already 
his  gloves  were  abominable  in  the  slop- 
basin,  and  now  with  a  single  gesture 
he  had  destroyed  the  symmetry  of  the 
set  table.  Mrs.  Maldon  with  surpassing 
patience  smiled  sweetly,  and  assured 
herself  that  Mr.  Batchgrew  could  not 
help  it.  He  was  a  coarse  male  creature 
at  large  in  a  room  highly  feminized. 
It  was  his  habit  thus  to  pass  through 
orderly  interiors,  distributing  havoc, 
like  a  rough  soldier.  You  might  almost 
hear  a  sword  clanking  in  the  scabbard. 

"Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty, 
sixty,"  he  began  in  his  heavily  rolling 
voice  to  count  out  one  by  one  a  bundle 
of  notes  which  he  had  taken  from  the 
envelope.  He  generously  licked  his 
thick,  curved-back  thumb  for  the  sepa- 
rating of  the  notes,  and  made  each  note 
sharply  click,  in  the  manner  of  a  bank 
cashier,  to  prove  to  himself  that  it 
was  not  two  notes  stuck  together. 
".  .  .  Five  seventy,  five  eighty,  five 
ninety,  six  hundred.  These  are  all 
tens.  Now  the  fives:  Five,  ten,  fif- 
teen, twenty,  twenty-five."  He  counted 
up  to  three  hundred  and  sixty-five. 
"That's  nine-sixty-five  altogether.  The 
odd  sixty-five's  arrear  of  interest.  I'm 
investing  nine  hundred  again  to-mor- 
row, and  th'  interest  on  th'  new  in- 
vestment is  to  start  from  th'  first  o' 
this  month.  So  instead  of  being  out 
o'  pocket,  you'll  be  in  pocket,  missis." 

The  notes  lay  in  two  irregular  filmy 
heaps  on  the  table. 

Having  carefully  returned  the  empty 
envelope  to  his  pocket,  Mr.  Batchgrew 
sat  back,  triumphant,  and  his  eye  met 
the  delighted  and  yet  disturbed  eye 
of  Mrs.  Maldon,  and  then  wavered 
and  dodged. 


58 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Mr.  Batchgrew,  with  all  his  romantic 
qualities,  lacked  any  perception  of  the 
noble  and  beautiful  in  life,  and  it  could 
be  positively  asserted  that  his  estimate 
of  Mrs.  Maldon  was  chiefly  disdainful. 
But  of  Mrs.  Maldon's  secret  opinion 
about  John  Batchgrew  nothing  could 
be  affirmed  with  certainty.  Nobody 
knew  it  or  ever  would  know  it.  I 
doubt  whether  Mrs.  Maldon  had  whis- 
pered it  even  to  herself.  In  youth  he 
had  been  the  very  intimate  friend  of  her 
husband.  Which  fact  would  scarcely 
tally  with  Mrs.  Maldon's  memory  of 
her  husband  as  the  most  upright  and 
perspicacious  of  men  —  unless  on  the 
assumption  that  John  Batchgrew's  real 
characteristics  had  not  properly  re- 
vealed themselves  until  after  his  crony's 
death;  this  assumption  was  perhaps 
admissible.  Mrs.  Maldon  invariably 
spoke  of  John  Batchgrew  with  respect 
and  admiration.  She  probably  had 
perfect  confidence  in  him  as  a  trustee, 
and  such  confidence  was  justified,  for 
the  Councilor  knew  as  well  as  anybody 
in  what  fields  rectitude  was  a  remu- 
nerative virtue,  and  in  what  fields  it 
was  not. 

Indeed,  as  a  trustee  his  sense  of  honor 
and  of  duty  was  so  nice  that  in  order 
to  save  his  ward  from  loss  in  connection 
with  a  depreciating  mortgage  security, 
he  had  invented,  as  a  Town  Council- 
or, the  "Improvement"  known  as  the 
"  Brougham  Street  Scheme."  If  this 
was  not  said  outright,  it  was  hinted. 
At  any  rate,  the  idea  was  fairly  current 
that  had  not  Councilor  Batchgrew  been 
interested  in  Brougham  Street  property, 
the  Brougham  Street  Scheme,  involving 
the  compulsory  purchase  of  some  of  that 
property  at  the  handsome  price  natu- 
rally expected  from  the  munificence  of 
corporations,  would  never  have  come 
into  being. 

Mrs.  Maldon  knew  of  the  existence 
of  the  idea,  which  had  been  obscurely 
referred  to  by  a  licensed  victualer 
(inimically  prejudiced  against  the  tee- 
totaler in  Mr.  Batchgrew)  at  a  Council 
meeting  reported  in  the  Signal.  And  it 
was  precisely  this  knowledge  which  had 
imparted  to  her  glance  the  peculiar 
disturbed  quality  that  had  caused  Mr. 
Batchgrew  to  waver  and  dodge. 

The  occasion  demanded  the  exercise 


of  unflinching  common  sense,  and  Mrs. 
Maldon  was  equal  to  it.  She  very 
wisely  decided  that  she  ought  not  to 
concern  herself,  and  could  not  concern 
herself,  with  an  aspect  of  the  matter 
which  concerned  her  trustee  alone. 
And  therefore  she  gave  her  heart 
entirely  up  to  an  intense  gladness  at 
the  integral  recovery  of  the  mortgage 
money. 

For,  despite  her  faith  in  the  efficiency 
of  her  trustee,  Mrs.  Maldon  would 
worry  about  finance;  she  would  yield 
to  an  exquisitely  painful  dread  lest 
"anything  should  happen" — happen, 
that  is,  to  prevent  her  from  dying  in  the 
comfortable  and  dignified  state  in  which 
she  had  lived.  Her  income  was  not 
large— a  little  under  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year — but  with  care  it  sufficed 
for  her  own  wants,  and  for  gifts,  sub- 
scriptions, and  an  occasional  carriage. 
There  would  have  been  a  small  margin 
but  for  the  constant  rise  in  prices.  As 
it  was,  there  was  no  permanent  margin. 
And  to  have  cut  off  a  single  annual 
subscription,  or  lessened  a  single  cus- 
tomary gift,  would  have  mortally 
wounded  her  pride.  The  gradual  de- 
clension of  property  values  in  Brougham 
Street  had  been  a  danger  that  each  year 
grew  more  menacing.  The  moment 
had  long  ago  come  when  the  whole 
rents  of  the  mortgaged  cottages  would 
not  cover  her  interest.  The  promise 
of  the  Corporation  Improvement 
Scheme  had  only  partially  reassured 
her;  it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 
She  could  not  believe  without  seeing. 
She  now  saw,  suddenly,  blindingly. 
And  her  relief,  beneath  that  stately 
deportment  of  hers,  was  pathetic  in 
its  simple  intensity.  It  would  have 
moved  John  Batchgrew,  had  he  been 
in  any  degree  susceptible  to  the  thrill 
of  pathos. 

"I  doubt  if  I've  seen  so  much  money 
all  at  once,  before,"  said  Mrs.  Maldon, 
smiling  weakly. 

"Happen  not!"  said  Mr.  Batchgrew, 
proud,  with  insincere  casualness,  and 
he  added  in  exactly  the  same  tone, 
"I'm  leaving  it  with  ye  to-night." 

Mrs.  Maldon  was  aghast,  but  she 
feigned  sprightliness  as  she  exclaimed: 

"You're  not  leaving  all  this  money 
here  to-night?" 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


59 


"I  am,"  said  the  trustee.  "That's 
what  I  came  for.  Evans's  were  three 
hours  late  in  completing,  and  the  bank 
was  closed.  I  have  but  just  got  it. 
I'm  not  going  home."  (He  lived  eight 
miles  off,  near  Axe.)  "I've  got  to  go 
to  a  church  meeting  at  Red  Cow,  and 
I'm  sleeping  there.  John's  Ernest  is 
calling  here  for  me  presently.  I  don't 
fancy  driving  over  them  moors  with 
near  a  thousand  pun  in  my  pocket — 
and  colliers  out  on  strike — not  at  my 
age,  missis!  If  you  don't  know  what 
Red  Cow  is,  I  reckon  I  do.  It's  your 
money.  Put  it  in  a  drawer  and  say 
nowt,  and  I'll  fetch  it  to-morrow. 
What  '11  happen  to  it,  think  ye,  seeing 
as  it  hasn't  got  legs?" 

He  spoke  with  the  authority  of  a 
trustee.  And  Mrs.  Maldon  felt  that 
her  reputation  for  sensible  equanimity 
was  worth  preserving.  So  she  said, 
bravely: 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right." 

"Of  course!"  snapped  the  trustee, 
patronizingly. 

"But  I  must  tell  Rachel." 

"Rachel?  Rachel?  Oh!  Her! 
Why  tell  any  one?"  Mr.  Batchgrew 
sniffed  very  actively. 

"Oh!  I  shouldn't  be  easy  if  I  didn't 
tell  Rachel,"  insisted  Mrs.  Maldon  with 
firmness. 

Before  the  trustee  could  protest  anew 
she  had  rung  the  bell. 

It  was  another  and  an  apronless 
Rachel  that  entered  the  room,  a  Rachel 
transformed,  magnificent  in  light  green 
frock  with  elaborate  lacy  ruchings  and 
ornamentations,  and  the  waist  at  the 
new  fashionable  height.  Her  ruddy 
face  and  hands  were  fresh  from  water, 
her  hair  very  glossy  and  very  neat: 
she  was  in  high  array.  This  festival 
attire  Mrs.  Maldon  now  fully  beheld 
for  the  first  time.  It  indeed  honored 
herself,  for  she  had  ordained  a  festive 
evening;  but  at  the  same  time  she  was 
surprised  and  troubled  by  it.  As  for 
Mr.  Batchgrew,  he  entirely  ignored  the 
vision.  Stretched  out  in  one  long 
inclined  plane  from  the  back  of  his 
chair  down  to  the  brass  fender,  he  con- 
templated the  fire,  while  picking  his 
teeth  with  a  certain  impatience,  and 
still    sniffing    actively.    The    girl  re- 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.-8 


sented  this  disregard.  But,  though 
she  remained  hostile  to  the  grotesque 
old  man  with  his  fussy  noises,  the  mantle 
of  Mrs.  Maldon's  moral  protection  was 
now  over  Councilor  Batchgrew,  and 
Rachel's  mistrustful  scorn  of  him  had 
lost  some  of  its  pleasing  force. 
"Rachel—" 

Mrs.  Maldon  gave  a  hesitating  cough. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Maldon?"  said  Rachel, 
questioningly  deferential,  and  smiling 
faintly  into  Mrs.  Maldon's  apprehen- 
sive eyes.  Against  the  background  of 
the  aged  pair  she  seemed  dramatically 
young,  lithe,  living,  and  wistful.  She 
was  nervous,  but  she  thought  with 
strong  superiority:  "What  are  those 
old  folks  planning  together?  Why  do 
they  ring  for  me?" 

At  length  Mrs.  Maldon  proceeded: 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  dear, 
Mr.  Batchgrew  is  obliged  to  leave  this 
money  in  my  charge  to-night." 

"What  money?"  asked  Rachel. 

Mr.  Batchgrew  put  in  sharply,  draw- 
ing up  his  legs: 

"This!  .  .  .  Here,  young  miss!  Step 
this  way,  if  ye  please.  I'll  count  it. 
Ten,  twenty,  thirty — "  With  new 
lickings  and  clickings  he  counted  the 
notes  all  over  again.  "There!"  When 
he  had  finished  his  pride  had  become 
positively  naive. 

"Oh,  my  word!"  murmured  Rachel, 
awed  and  astounded. 

"It  is  rather  a  lot,  isn't  it?"  said 
Mrs.  Maldon,  with  a  timid  laugh. 

At  once  fascinated  and  repelled,  the 
two  women  looked  at  the  money  as  at 
a  magic.  It  represented  to  Mrs.  Mal- 
don a  future  free  from  financial  em- 
barrassment; it  represented  to  Rachel 
more  than  she  could  earn  in  half  a 
century  at  her  wage  of  eighteen  pounds 
a  year,  an  unimaginable  source  of  end- 
less gratifications;  and  yet  the  mere 
fact  that  it  was  to  stay  in  the  house  all 
night  changed  it  for  them  into  some- 
thing dire  and  formidable,  so  that  it 
inspired  both  of  them — the  ancient 
dame  and  the  young  girl — with  naught 
but  a  mystic  dread.  Mr.  Batchgrew 
eyed  the  affrighted  creatures  with 
satisfaction,  appearing  to  take  a  per- 
verse pleasure  in  thus  imposing  upon 
them  the  horrid  incubus. 

"I  was  only  thinking  of  burglars," 


60 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


said  Mrs.  Maldon,  apologetically. 
"There' ve  been  so  many  burglaries 
lately — "  She  ceased,  uncertain  of  her 
voice.  The  forced  lightness  of  her 
tone  was  almost  tragic. 

"There  won't  be  any  more,"  said 
Mr.  Batchgrew,  condescendingly. 

"Why?"  demanded  Mrs.  Maldon 
with  an  eager  smile  of  hope.  "Have 
they  caught  them,  then?  Has  Super- 
intendent Snow — " 

"They  have  their  hands  on  them. 
To-morrow  there'll  be  some  arrests," 
Mr.  Batchgrew  answered,  exuding 
authority.  For  he  was  not  merely  a 
Town  Councilor,  he  was  brother-in-law 
to  the  Superintendent  of  the  Borough 
Police.  "Caught  'em  long  ago  if  th' 
county  police  had  been  a  bit  more  re- 
liable!" 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Maldon  breathed  hap- 
pily. "I  knew  it  couldn't  be  Mr. 
Snow's  fault.  I  felt  sure  of  that.  I'm 
so  glad." 

And  Rachel  also  was  conscious  of. 
gladness.  In  fact,  it  suddenly  seemed 
plain  to  both  women  that  no  burglar, 
certain  of  arrest  on  the  morrow,  would 
dare  to  invade  the  house  of  a  lady 
whose  trustee  had  married  the  sister  of 
the  Superintendent  of  Police.  The 
house  was  invisibly  protected. 

"And  we  mustn't  forget  we  shall 
have  a  man  sleeping  here  to-night," 
said  Rachel,  confidently. 

"Of  course!  Of  course!  I  was  quite 
overlooking  that!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mal- 
don. 

Mr.   Batchgrew  threw  a  curt  and 
suspicious  question: 
|| What  man?" 

"My  nephew  Julian — I  should  say 
my  grandnephew."  Mrs.  Maldon's 
proud  tone  rebuked  the  strange  tone 
of  Mr.  Batchgrew.  "It's  his  birthday. 
He  and  Louis  are  having  supper  with 
me.    And  Julian  is  staying  the  night." 

"Well,  if  ye  take  my  advice,  missis, 
ye'li  say  nowt  to  nobody.  Lock  the 
brass  up  in  a  drawer  in  that  wardrobe 
of  yours,  and  keep  a  still  tongue  in  your 
head." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  Mrs.  Maldon 
agreed,  "as  a  matter  of  general  prin- 
ciple, I  mean.  And  it  might  make 
Julian  uneasy." 

"Take  it  and  lock  it  up,"  Mr.  Batch- 
grew  repeated. 


"I  don't  know  about  my  ward- 
robe— "  Mrs.  Maldon  began. 

"Anywhere!"  Mr.  Batchgrew  stop- 
ped her. 

"Only,"  said  Rachel  with  careful 
gentleness,  "please  don't  forget  where 
you  have  put  it." 

But  her  precaution  of  manner  was 
futile.  Twice  within  a  minute  she  had 
employed  the  word  "forget."  Twice 
was  too  often.  Mrs.  Maldon's  memory 
was  most  capriciously  uncertain.  Its 
lapses  astonished  sometimes  even  her- 
self. And  naturally  she  was  sensitive 
on  the  point.  She  nourished  the  fiction, 
and  she  expected  others  to  nourish  it, 
that  her  memory  was  quite  equal  to 
younger  memories.  Indeed,  she  would 
admit  every  symptom  of  old  age — save 
an  unreliable  memory. 

Composing  a  dignified  smile,  she  said 
with  reproving  blandness: 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  forgetting 
where  I  put  valuables,  Rachel." 

And  her  prominently  veined  fingers, 
clasping  the  notes  as  a  preliminary  to 
hiding  them  away,  seemed  in  their 
nervous  primness  to  be  saying  to 
Rachel:  "I  have  deep  confidence  in 
you,  and  I  think  that  to-night  I  have 
shown  it.  But  oblige  me  by  not  pre- 
suming. I  am  Mrs.  Maldon  and  you 
are  Rachel.  After  all,  I  have  not  yet 
known  you  for  a  month." 

A  very  loud  rasping  noise,  like  a 
vicious  menace,  sounded  from  the  street, 
shivering  instantaneously  the  delicate 
placidity  of  Mrs.  Maldon's  home. 
Mrs.  Maldon  gave  a  start. 

"That  '11  be  John's  Ernest  with  the 
car,"  said  Mr.  Batchgrew,  amused;  and 
he  began  to  get  up  from  the  chair. 
As  soon  as  he  was  on  his  feet  his  nose 
grew  active  again.  "You've  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of,  missis,"  he  added  in  a 
tone  roughly  reassuring  and  good- 
natured. 

"Oh  no!  Of  course  not!"  concurred 
Mrs.  Maldon,  further  enforcing  in- 
trepidity on  herself.  "Of  course  not! 
I  only  just  mentioned  burglars  because 
they're  so  much  in  the  paper."  And 
she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  Signal  and 
folded  it  carefully,  as  if  to  prove  that 
her  mind  was  utterly  collected. 

Councilor  Batchgrew,  leaning  over 
the  table,  peered  into  various  vessels 


Painting  by  C.  E.  Chambers 

AGAINST   THE    BACKGROUND    OF   THE    AGED    PAIR    SHE    SEEMED    DRAMATICALLY  YOUNG 


1 


V 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


61 


in  search  of  his  gloves.  At  length  he 
took  them  finickingly  from  the  white 
slop-basin  as  though  fishing  them  out 
of  a  puddle.  He  began  to  put  them 
on,  and  then,  half-way  through  the 
process,  abruptly  shook  hands  with 
Mrs.  Maldon. 

"Then  you'll  call  in  the  morning?" 
she  asked. 

"Ay!  Ye  may  count  on  me.  I'll 
relieve  ye  on  it  afore  ten  o'clock. 
It  '11  be  on  my  way  to  Hanbridge,  ye 
see. 

Mrs.  Maldon  ceremoniously  accom- 
panied her  trustee  as  far  as  the  sitting- 
room  door,  where  she  recommended  him 
to  the  careful  attention  of  Rachel. 
No  woman  in  the  Five  Towns  could  take 
leave  of  a  guest  with  more  impressive 
dignity  than  old  Mrs.  Maldon,  whose 
fine  Southern  accent  always  gave  a 
finish  to  her  farewells.  In  the  lobby 
Mr.  Batchgrew  kept  Rachel  waiting 
with  his  overcoat  in  her  outstretched 
hands  while  he  completed  the  business 
of  his  gloves.  As,  close  behind  him, 
she  coaxed  his  stiff  arms  into  the  over- 
coat, she  suddenly  felt  that  after  all  he 
was  nothing  but  a  decrepit  survival; 
and  his  oiTensiveness  seemed  somehow 
to  have  been  increased — perhaps  by  the 
singular  episode  of  the  gloves  and  the 
slop-basin.  She  opened  the  front  door, 
and  without  a  word  to  her  he  departed 
down  the  steps. 

Two  lamps  like  light-houses  glared 
fiercely  along  the  roadway,  dulling  the 
municipal  gas  and  giving  to  each  loose 
stone  on  the  macadam  a  long  shadow. 
In  the  gloom  behind  the  lamps  the  low 
form  of  an  open  automobile  showed, 
and  a  dim,  cloaked  figure  beside  it.  A 
boyish  voice  said  with  playful  bullying 
sharpness,  above  the  growling  irregular 
pulsation  of  the  engine: 

"Here,  grandad,  you've  got  to  put 
this  on." 

"Have  I?"  demanded  uncertainly 
the  thick,  heavy  voice  of  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  you  have — on  the  top  of  your 
other  coat.  If  I  don't  look  after  you 
I  shall  get  myself  into  a  row!  .  .  .  Here, 
let  me  put  your  fist  in  the  armhole. 
It's  your  blooming  glove  that  stops 
it.  .  .  .  There!  Now,  up  with  you, 
grandad!  ....  All  right!  I've  got  you. 
I  sha'n't  drop  you." 


A  door  snapped  to;  then  another. 
The  car  shot  violently  forward,  with 
shrieks  and  a  huge  buzzing  noise,  and 
leaped  up  the  slope  of  the  street.  Rachel, 
still  in  the  porch,  could  see  Mr.  Batch- 
grew's  head  wagging  rather  helplessly 
from  side  to  side,  just  above  the  red 
speck  of  the  tail-lamp.  Then  the 
whole  vision  was  swiftly  blotted  out, 
and  the  warning  shrieks  of  the  invis- 
ible car  grew  fainter  on  the  way  to  Red 
Cow.  It  pleased  Rachel  to  think  of 
the  old  man  being  casually  bullied  and 
shaken  by  John's  Ernest. 

She  leaned  forward  and  gazed  down 
the  street,  not  up  it.  When  she  turned 
into  the  house  Mrs.  Maldon  was  de- 
scending the  stairs,  which,  being  in  a 
line  with  the  lobby,  ended  opposite 
the  front  door.  Judging  by  the  fixity 
of  the  old  lady's  features,  Rachel  de- 
cided that  she  was  not  yet  quite  par- 
doned for  the  slight  she  had  put  upon 
the  memory  of  her  employer.  So 
she  smiled  pleasantly. 

"Don't  close  the  front  door,  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Maldon,  stiffly.  "There's 
some  one  there." 

Rachel  looked  round.  She  had  actu- 
ally, in  sheer  absent-mindedness  or 
negligence  or  deafness,  been  shutting 
the  door  in  the  face  of  a  telegraph- 
boy! 

"Oh  dear!  I  do  hope—!"  Mrs. 
Maldon  muttered  as  she  hastily  tugged 
at  the  envelope. 

Having  read  the  message,  she  passed 
it  on  to  Rachel,  and  at  the  same  time 
forgivingly  responded  to  her  smile. 
The  excitement  of  the  telegram  had 
sufficed  to  dissipate  Mrs.  Maldon's 
trifling  resentment. 

Rachel  read: 

"Train  hour  late.  Julian." 
The   telegraph-boy   was  dismissed: 
"No  answer,  thank  you." 

During  the  next  half-hour  excite- 
ment within  the  dwelling  gradually  in- 
creased. It  grew  out  of  nothing — 
out  of  Mrs.  Maldon's  admirable  calm 
in  receiving  the  message  of  the  telegram 
— until  it  affected  like  an  atmospheric 
disturbance  the  ground-floor  —  the  sit- 
ting-room where  Mrs.  Maldon  was 
spending  nervous  force  in  the  effort  to 
preserve  an  absolutely  tranquil  mind, 


62 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


the  kitchen  where  Rachel  was  "putting 
back"  the  supper,  the  lobby  towards 
which  Rachel's  eye  and  Mrs.  Maldon's 
ear  were  strained  to  catch  any  sign  of 
an  arrival,  and  the  unlighted,  unused 
room  behind  the  sitting-room  which 
seemed  to  absorb  and  even  intensify  the 
changing  moods  of  the  house. 

The  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Maldon,  in  her 
relief  at  finding  that  Julian  was  not 
killed  or  maimed  for  life  in  a  railway 
accident,  had  begun  by  treating  a  delay 
of  one  hour  in  all  her  arrangements  for 
the  evening  as  a  trifle.  But  she  had 
soon  felt  that,  though  a  trifle,  it  was 
really  very  upsetting  and  annoying. 
It  gave  birth  to  irrational  yet  real 
forebodings  as  to  the  non-success  of  her 
little  party.  It  meant  that  the  little 
party  had  "started  badly."  And  then 
her  other  grandnephew,  Louis  Fores, 
did  not  arrive.  He  had  been  invited 
for  supper  at  seven,  and  should  have 
appeared  at  five  minutes  to  seven  at 
the  latest.  But  at  five  minutes  to 
seven  he  had  not  come;  nor  at  seven, 
nor  at  five  minutes  past — he  who  had 
barely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  walk! 
There  was  surely  a  fate  against  the 
party!  And  Rachel  strangely  per- 
sisted in  not  leaving  the  kitchen! 
Even  after  Mrs.  Maldon  had  heard  her 
fumbling  for  an  interminable  time  with 
the  difficult  window  on  the  first-floor 
landing,  she  went  back  to  the  kitchen 
instead  of  presenting  herself  to  her 
expectant  mistress. 

At  last  Rachel  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  faintly  humming  an  air.  Mrs 
Maldon  thought  that  she  looked  self- 
conscious.  But  Mrs.  Maldon  also  was 
self-conscious,  and  somehow  could  not 
bring  her  lips  to  utter  the  name  of 
Louis  Fores  to  Rachel.  For  the  old 
lady  had  divined  a  connection  of  cause 
and  effect  between  Louis  Fores  and  the 
apparition  of  Rachel's  superlative  frock. 
And  she  did  not  like  the  connection; 
it  troubled  her,  and  offended  the  ex- 
treme nicety  of  her  social  code. 

There  was  a  constrained  silence,  which 
was  broken  by  the  lobby  clock  striking 
the  first  quarter  after  seven.  This 
harsh  announcement  on  the  part  of  the 
inhuman  clock  seemed  to  render  the 
situation  intolerable.  Fifteen  minutes 
past  seven,  and  Louis  not  come,  and 


not  a  word  of  comment  thereon!  Mrs. 
Maldon  had  to  admit  privately  that 
she  was  in  a  high  state  of  agitation. 

Then  Rachel,  bending  delicately  to 
sweep  the  hearth  with  the  brass- 
handled  brush  proper  to  it,  remarked 
with  an  obvious  affectation  of  non- 
chalance: 

"Your  other  guest's  late  too." 

If  Mrs.  Maldon  had  not  been  able  to 
speak  his  name,  neither  could  Rachel! 
Mrs.  Maldon  read  with  painful  cer- 
tainty all  the  girl's  symptoms. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Maldon. 

"It's  like  as  if  what  must  be!" 
Rachel  murmured,  employing  a  local 
phrase  which  Mrs.  Maldon  had  ever 
contemned  as  meaningless  and  un- 
grammatical. 

"Fortunately  it  doesn't  matter,  as 
Julian  is  late,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Maldon, 
insincerely,  for  it  was  mattering  very 
much.    "But  still — I  wonder — " 

Rachel  broke  out  upon  her  hesitation 
in  a  very  startling  manner: 

"I'll  just  see  if  he's  coming." 

And  she  abruptly  quitted  the  room, 
almost  slamming  the  door. 

Mrs.  Maldon  was  dumbfounded. 
Scared  and  attentive,  she  listened  in  a 
maze  for  the  sound  of  the  front  door. 
She  heard  it  open.  But  was  it  possible 
that  she  heard  also  the  creak  of  the  gate? 
She  sprang  to  the  bow-window  with 
surprising  activity,  and  pulled  aside  a 
blind,  one  inch.  .  .  .  There  was  Rachel 
tripping  hatless  and  in  her  best  frock 
down  the  street!  Inconceivable  vision, 
affecting  Mrs.  Maldon  with  palpitation! 
A  girl  so  excellent,  so  lovable,  so  trust- 
worthy, to  be  guilty  of  the  wanton 
caprice  of  a  minx!  Supposing  Louis 
were  to  see  her,  to  catch  her  in  the 
brazen  act  of  looking  for  him!  Mrs. 
Maldon  was  grieved;  and  her  gentle 
sorrow  for  Rachel's  incalculable  lapse 
was  so  dignified,  affectionate,  and  jeal- 
ous for  the  good  repute  of  human  nature 
that  it  mysteriously  ennobled  instead 
of  degrading  the  young  creature. 

Going  down  Bycars  Lane  amid  the 
soft  wandering  airs  of  the  September 
night,  Rachel  had  the  delicious  and 
exciting  sensation  of  being  unyoked, 
of  being  at  liberty  for  a  space  to  obey 
the  strong  free  common  sense  of  youth 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


63 


instead  of  conforming  to  the  outworn 
and  tiresome  code  of  another  age. 
Mrs.  Maldon's  was  certainly  a  house 
that  put  a  strain  on  the  nerves.  It  did 
not  occur  to  Rachel  that  she  was  doing 
aught  but  a  very  natural  and  proper 
thing.  The  nonappearance  of  Louis 
Fores  was  causing  disquiet,  and  her 
simple  aim  was  to  shorten  the  period 
of  anxiety.  Nor  did  it  occur  to  her 
that  she  was  impulsive.  Something 
had  to  be  done,  and  she  had  done  some- 
thing. Not  much  longer  could  she  have 
borne  the  suspense.  All  that  day  she 
had  lived  forward  toward  supper- 
time,  when  Louis  Fores  would  appear. 
Over  and  over  again  she  had  lived 
right  through  the  moment  of  opening 
the  front  door  for  him  at  a  little  before 
seven  o'clock.  The  moments  between 
seven  o'clock  and  a  quarter  past  had 
been  a  crescendo  of  torment,  intolerable 
at  last.  His  lateness  was  inexplicable, 
and  he  was  so  close  to  that  not  to  look 
for  him  would  have  been  ridiculous. 

She  was  apprehensive,  and  yet  she 
was  obscurely  happy  in  her  fears. 
The  large,  inviting,  dangerous  universe 
was  about  her — she  had  escaped  from 
the  confining  shelter  of  the  house. 
And  the  night  was  about  her.  It  was 
not  necessary  for  her  to  wear  three  coats, 
like  the  gross  Batchgrew,  in  order  to 
protect  herself  from  the  night!  She 
could  go  forth  into  it  with  no  pre- 
caution. She  was  young.  Her  vigor- 
ous and  confident  body  might  challenge 
perils. 

When  she  had  proceeded  a  hundred 
yards  she  stopped  and  turned  to  look 
back  at  the  cluster  of  houses  collectively 
called  Bycars. 

The  distinctive  bow-window  of  Mrs. 
Maldon's  shone  yellow.  Within  the 
sacred  room  was  still  the  old  lady, 
sitting  expectant,  and  trying  to  interest 
herself  in  the  paper.    Strange  thought! 

Bycars  Lane  led  in  a  northeasterly 
direction  over  the  broad  hill  whose 
ridge  separates  the  lane  from  the  moor- 
lands honeycombed  with  coal  and  iron 
mines.  Above  the  ridge  showed  the 
fire  and  vapor  of  the  first  mining  vil- 
lages, on  the  way  to  Red  Cow,  proof 
that  not  all  colliers  were  yet  on  strike. 
And  above  that  pyrotechny  hung  the 
moon.    The  Municipal  Park,  of  which 


Bycars  Lane  was  the  northwestern 
boundary,  lay  in  mysterious  and  for- 
bidden groves  behind  its  spiked  red 
wall  and  locked  gates,  and  beyond  it  a 
bright  tram-car  was  leaping  down  from 
lamp  to  lamp  of  Moorthorne  Road 
towards  the  town.  Between  the  masses 
of  the  ragged  hedge  on  the  north  side 
of  the  lane  there  was  the  thin  gleam 
of  Bycars  Pool,  lost  in  a  vague  un- 
occupied region  of  shawd  -  rucks  and 
dirty  pasture  —  the  rendezvous  of 
skaters  when  the  frost  held,  Louis  Fores 
had  told  her,  and  she  had  heard  from 
another  source  that  he  skated  divinely. 
She  could  believe  it,  too. 

She  resumed  her  way  more  slowly. 
She  had  only  stopped  because,  though 
burned  with  the  desire  to  see  him,  she 
yet  had  an  instinct  to  postpone  the 
encounter.  She  was  almost  minded  to 
return.  But  she  went  on.  The  town 
was  really  very  near.  The  illuminated 
clock  of  the  Town  Hall  had  dominion 
over  it;  the  golden  shimmer  above  the 
roofs  to  the  left  indicated  the  electrical 
splendor  of  the  new  Cinema  in  Moor- 
thorne Road  next  to  the  new  Primitive 
Methodist  Chapel.  He  had  told  her 
about  that,  too.  In  two  minutes,  in 
less  than  two  minutes,  she  was  among 
houses  again,  and  approaching  the 
corner  of  Friendly  Street.  He  would 
come  from  the  Moorthorne  Road  end 
of  Friendly  Street.  She  would  peep 
round  the  corner  of  Friendly  Street  to 
see  if  he  was  coming.  .  .  . 

But  before  she  reached  the  corner, 
her  escapade  suddenly  presented  itself 
to  her  as  childish  madness,  silly,  inex- 
cusable; and  she  thought  self-reproach- 
fully:  "How  impulsive  I  am!"  And 
sharply  turned  back  toward  Mrs. 
Maldon's  house,  which  seemed  to  be 
about  ten  miles  ofF. 

A  moment  later  she  heard  hurried 
footfalls  behind  her  on  the  narrow  brick 
pavement,  and,  after  one  furtive  glance 
over  her  shoulder,  she  quickened  her 
pace.  Louis  Fores  in  all  his  elegance 
was  pursuing  her!  Nothing  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  He  was  not  ill;  he  was 
merely  a  little  late!  After  all,  she 
would  sit  by  his  side  at  the  supper- 
table!  She  had  a  spasm  of  shame  that 
was  excruciating.  But  at  the  same 
time  she  was  wildly  glad.    And  already 


64 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


this  inebriating  illusion  of  an  ingenuous 
girl  concerning  a  common  male  was 
helping  to  shape  monstrous  events. 

CHAPTER  II 

LOUIS*  DISCOVERY 

LOUIS  FORES  was  late  at  his  grand- 
aunt's  because  he  had  by  a  certain 
preoccupation,  during  a  period  of 
about  an  hour,  been  rendered  oblivious 
of  the  passage  of  time.  The  real  origin 
of  the  affair  went  back  nearly  sixty 
years,  to  an  indecorous  episode  in  the 
history  of  the  Maldon  family. 

At  that  date — before  Mrs.  Maldon 
had  even  met  Austin  Maldon,  her 
future  husband — Austin's  elder  brother 
Athelstan,  who  was  well  established  as 
an  earthenware  broker  in  London,  had 
a  conjugal  misfortune,  which  reached 
its  climax  in  the  Matrimonial  Court, 
and  left  the  injured  and  stately  Athel- 
stan with  an  incomplete  household,  a 
spoiled  home,  and  the  sole  care  of  two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl.  These 
children  were,  almost  of  necessity, 
clumsily  brought  up.  The  girl  married 
the  half-brother  of  a  Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral  Fores,  and  Louis  Fores  was  their 
son.  The  boy  married  an  American 
girl,  and  had  issue,  Julian  Maldon  and 
some  daughters. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  Louis  Fores, 
amiable,  personable,  and  an  orphan,  was 
looking  for  a  career.  He  had  lived  in  the 
London  suburb  of  Barnes,  and  under  the 
influence  of  a  father  whose  career  had 
chiefly  been  to  be  the  step-brother  of 
Lieutenant- General  Fores.  He  was 
in  full  possession  of  the  conventionally 
snobbish  ideals  of  the  suburb,  reinforced 
by  more  than  a  tincture  of  the  stu- 
pendous and  unsurpassed  snobbishness 
of  the  British  army.  He  had  no 
money,  and  therefore  the  liberal  pro- 
fessions and  the  Higher  Division  of 
the  Civil  Service  were  closed  to  him. 
He  had  the  choice  of  two  activities: 
he  might  tout  for  wine,  motor-cars, 
or  mineral-waters  on  commission  (like 
his  father),  or  he  might  enter  a  bank. 
His  friends  were  agreed  that  nothing 
else  was  conceivable.  He  chose  the 
living  grave.  It  is  not  easy  to  enter 
the  living  grave,  but,  august  influences 


aiding,  he  entered  it  with  eclat  at  a 
salary  of  seventy  pounds  a  year,  and  it 
closed  over  him.  He  would  have  been 
secure  till  his  second  death  had  he  not 
defiled  the  bier.  The  day  of  judgment 
occurred,  the  grave  opened,  and  he  was 
thrown  out  with  ignominy,  but  igno- 
miny unpublished.  The  august  influ- 
ences, by  simple  cash,  and  for  their  own 
sakes,  had  saved  him  from  exposure 
and  a  jury. 

In  order  to  get  rid  of  him  his  pro- 
tectors spoke  well  of  him,  emphasizing 
his  many  good  qualities,  and  he  was 
deported  to  the  Five  Towns  (properly 
enough,  since  his  grandfather  had  come 
thence),  and  there  joined  the  staff  of 
Batchgrew  &  Sons,  thanks  to  the  kind 
intervention  of  Mrs.  Maldon.  At  the 
end  of  a  year  John  Batchgrew  told 
him  to  go,  and  told  Mrs.  Maldon 
that  her  grandnephew  had  a  fault. 
Mrs.  Maldon  was  very  sorry.  At  this 
juncture  Louis  Fores,  without  intend- 
ing to  do  so,  would  certainly  have 
turned  Mrs.  Maldon's  last  years  into 
a  tragedy,  had  he  not  in  the  very  nick 
of  time  inherited  about  a  thousand 
pounds.  He  was  rehabilitated.  He 
"had  money"  now.  He  had  a  fortune; 
he  had  ten  thousand  pounds;  he  had 
any  sum  you  like,  according  to  the 
caprice  of  rumor.  He  lived  on  his 
means  for  a  little  time,  frequenting 
the  Municipal  School  of  Art  at  the 
Wedgwood  Institution  at  Bursley,  and 
then  old  Batchgrew  had  casually  sug- 
gested to  Mrs.  Maldon  that  there  ought 
to  be  an  opening  for  him  with  Jim 
Horrocleave,  who  was  understood  to 
be  succeeding  with  his  patent  special 
processes  for  earthenware  manufacture. 
Mr.  Horrocleave,  a  man  with  a  chin, 
would  not  accept  him  for  a  partner, 
having  no  desire  to  share  profits  with 
anybody;  but  on  the  faith  of  his  artistic 
tendency  and  Mrs.  Maldon's  correct 
yet  highly  misleading  catalogue  of  his 
virtues,  he  took  him  at  a  salary,  in 
return  for  which  Louis  was  to  be  the 
confidential  employee  who  could  and 
would  do  anything,  including  design. 

And  now  Louis  was  the  step-nephew 
of  a  Lieutenant-General,  a  man  of 
private  means  and  of  talent,  and  a 
trusted  employee  with  a  fine  wage — 
all  under  one  skin!    He  shone  in  Burs- 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


65 


ley,  and  no  wonder!  He  was  very 
active  at  Horrocleave's.  He  not  only 
designed  shapes  for  vases,  and  talked 
intimately  with  Jim  Horrocleave  about 
fresh  projects,  but  he  controlled  the 
petty  cash.  The  expenditure  of  petty 
cash  grew,  as  was  natural  in  a  growing 
business.  Mr.  Horrocleave  soon  got 
accustomed  to  that,  and  apparently 
gave  it  no  thought,  signing  cheques 
instantly  upon  request.  But  on  the 
very  day  of  Mrs.  Maldon's  party,  after 
signing  a  cheque  and  before  handing  it 
to  Louis,  he  had  somewhat  lengthily 
consulted  his  private  cash-book,  and, 
as  he  handed  over  the  cheque,  had 
said:  " Let's  have  a  squint  at  the 
petty-cash  book,  to-morrow  morning, 
Louis."  He  said  it  gruffly,  but  he  was 
a  grufF  man.  He  left  early.  He  might 
have  meant  anything  or  nothing.  Louis 
could  not  decide  which;  or,  rather, 
from  five  o'clock  to  seven  he  had  come 
to  alternating  decisions  every  five 
minutes. 

It  was  just  about  at  the  time  when 
Louis  ought  to  have  been  removing  his 
paper  cufF-shields  in  order  to  start 
for  Mrs.  Maldon's  that  he  discovered 
the  full  extent  of  his  debt  to  the  petty- 
cash  box.  He  sat  alone  at  a  rough  and 
dirty  desk  in  the  inner  room  of  the 
works  "office,"  surrounded  by  dust- 
covered  sample  vases  and  other  vessels 
of  all  shapes,  sizes,  and  tints  —  speci- 
mens of  Horrocleave's  "Art  Luster 
Ware,"  a  melancholy  array  of  in- 
genious ugliness  that  nevertheless  filled 
with  pride  its  creators.  He  looked 
through  a  dirt-obscured  window  and 
with  unseeing  gaze  surveyed  a  muddy, 
littered  quadrangle  whose  twilight  was 
reddened  by  gleams  from  the  engine- 
house.  In  this  yard  lay  flat  a  sign  that 
had  been  blown  down  from  the  facade 
of  the  manufactory  six  months  before: 
"Horrocleave.  Art  Luster  Ware." 
Within  the  room  was  another  sign, 
itself  fashioned  in  luster-ware:  "Hor- 
rocleave. Art  Luster  Ware."  And 
the  envelopes  and  paper  and  bill-heads 
on  the  desk  all  bore  the  same  legend: 

i  6  T  T 

Horrocleave.    Art  Luster  Ware." 
He  owed  seventy-three  pounds  to  the 
petty-cash  box,  and  he  was  startled  and 
shocked.    He  was  startled  because  for 


weeks  past  he  had  refrained  from  adding 
up  the  columns  of  the  cash-book — 
partly  from  idleness  and  partly  from  a 
desire  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  his 
own  doings.  He  had  hoped  for  the 
best.  He  had  faintly  hoped  that  the 
deficit  would  not  exceed  ten  pounds, 
or  twelve;  he  had  been  prepared  for  a 
deficit  of  twenty-five,  or  even  thirty. 
But  seventy-three  really  shocked.  Nay, 
it  staggered.  It  meant  that  in  addition 
to  his  salary,  some  thirty  shillings  a 
week  had  been  mysteriously  trickling 
through  the  incurable  hole  in  his  pocket. 
Not  to  mention  other  debts!  He  well 
knew  that  to  Shillitoe  alone  (his 
admirable  tailor)  he  owed  eighteen 
pounds. 

It  may  be  asked  how  a  young 
bachelor,  with  private  means  and  a  fine 
salary,  living  in  a  district  where  prices 
are  low  and  social  conventions  not 
costly,  could  have  come  to  such  a  pass. 
The  answer  is  that  Louis  had  no  private 
means,  and  that  his  salary  was  not  fine. 
The  thousand  pounds  had  gradually 
vanished,  as  a  thousand  pounds  will, 
in  the  refinements  of  material  existence 
and  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  His 
bank  account  had  long  been  in  abey- 
ance. His  salary  was  three  pounds  a 
week.  Many  a  member  of  the  liberal 
professions — many  a  solicitor,  for  ex- 
ample— brings  up  a  family  on  three 
pounds  a  week  in  the  provinces.  But 
for  a  Lieutenant-General's  nephew,  who 
had  once  had  a  thousand  pounds  in  one 
lump,  three  pounds  a  week  was  inade- 
quate. As  a  fact,  Louis  conceived  him- 
self "Art  Director"  of  Horrocleave's, 
and  sincerely  thought  that  as  such  he 
was  ill-paid.  Herein  was  one  of  his 
private  excuses  for  eccentricity  with 
the  petty  cash.  It  may  also  be  asked 
what  Louis  had  to  show  for  his  superb 
expenditure.    The  answer  is,  nothing. 

With  the  seventy-three  pounds  des- 
olatingly  clear  in  his  mind,  he  quitted 
his  desk  in  order  to  reconnoiter  the 
outer  and  larger  portion  of  the  count- 
ing-house. He  went  as  far  as  the 
archway,  and  saw  black  smoke  being 
blown  downwards  from  heaven  into 
Friendly  Street.  A  policeman  was 
placidly  regarding  the  smoke  as  he 
strolled  by.  And  Louis,  though  ab- 
solutely sure  that  the  officer  would  not 


66 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


carry  out  his  plain  duty  of  summoning 
Horrocleave's  for  committing  a  smoke- 
nuisance,  did  not  relish  the  spectacle 
of  the  policeman.  He  returned  to  the 
inner  office,  and  locked  the  door.  The 
"staff"  and  the  "hands"  had  all  gone, 
save  one  or  two  piece-workers  in  the 
painting-shop  across  the  yard. 

The  night-watchman,  fresh  from  bed, 
was  moving  fussily  about  the  yard.  He 
nodded  with  respect  to  Louis  through 
the  grimy  window.  Louis  lit  the  gas, 
and  spread  a  newspaper  in  front  of  the 
window  by  way  of  blind.  And  then 
he  began  a  series  of  acts  on  the  petty- 
cash  book.  The  office  clock  indicated 
twenty  past  six.  He  knew  that  time 
was  short,  but  he  had  a  natural  gift  for 
the  invention  and  execution  of  these 
acts,  and  he  calculated  that  under  half 
an  hour  would  suffice  for  them.  But 
when  he  next  looked  at  the  clock,  the 
acts  being  accomplished,  one  hour  had 
elapsed;  it  had  seemed  to  him  more  like 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Yet  as  blotting- 
paper  cannot  safely  be  employed  in  such 
delicate  calligraphic  feats  as  those  of 
Louis,  even  an  hour  was  not  excessive 
for  what  he  had  done.  An  operator 
clumsier,  less  cool,  less  cursory,  more 
cautious  than  himself  might  well  have 
spent  half  a  night  over  the  job.  He 
locked  up  the  book,  washed  his  hands 
and  face  with  remarkable  celerity  in  a 
filthy  lavatory-basin,  brushed  his  hair, 
removed  his  cuff-shields,  changed  his 
coat,  and  fled  at  speed,  leaving  the 
key  of  the  office  with  the  watchman. 

"I  suppose  the  old  lady  was  getting 
anxious,"  said  he  brightly  (but  in  a  low 
tone  so  that  the  old  lady  should  not 
hear),  as  he  shook  hands  with  Rachel 
in  the  lobby.  He  had  recognized  her 
in  front  of  him  up  the  lane  —  had  in 
fact  nearly  overtaken  her;  and  she 
was  standing  at  the  open  door  when 
he  mounted  the  steps.  She  had  had 
just  time  to  prove  to  Mrs.  Maldon  by 
a  "He's  coming"  thrown  through  the 
sitting-room  doorway  that  she  had  not 
waited  for  Louis  Fores  and  walked  up 
with  him. 

"Yes,"  Rachel  replied  in  the  same 
tone,  most  deceitfully  leaving  him  under 
the  false  impression  that  it  was  the  old 
lady's  anxiety  that  had  sent  her  out. 


She  had,  then,  emerged  scatheless  in 
reputation  from  the  indiscreet  adven- 
ture! 

8  The  house  was  animated  by  the  ar- 
rival of  Louis;  at  once  it  seemed  to  live 
more  keenly  when  he  had  crossed  the 
threshold.  And  Louis  found  pleasure 
in  the  house — in  the  welcoming  aspect 
of  its  interior,  in  Rachel's  evident  ex- 
cited gladness  at  seeing  him,  in  her 
honest  and  agreeable  features,  and  in 
her  sheer  girlishness.  A  few  minutes 
earlier  he  had  been  in  the  sordid  and 
dreadful  office.  Now  he  was  in  another 
and  a  cleaner,  prettier  world.  He  yield- 
ed instantly  and  fully  to  its  invitation, 
for  he  had  the  singular  faculty  of  being 
able  to  cast  off  care  like  a  garment. 
He  felt  sympathetic  towards  women, 
and  eager  to  employ  for  their  content- 
ment all  the  charm  which  he  knew  he 
possessed.  He  gave  himself,  gener- 
ously, in  every  gesture  and  intonation. 

"Office,  auntie,  office!"  he  exclaimed, 
elegantly  entering  the  parlor.  "Sack- 
cloth! Ashes!  Hallo!  where's  Julian? 
Is  he  late,  too?" 

When  he  had  received  the  news  about 
Julian  Maldon  he  asked  to  see  the 
telegram,  and  searched  out  its  place  of 
origin,  and  drew  forth  a  pocket  time- 
table, and  remarked  in  a  wise  way  that 
he  hoped  Julian  would  "make  the  con- 
nection" at  Derby.  Lastly  he  pre- 
dicted the  precise  minute  at  which 
Julian  "ought"  to  be  knocking  at  the 
front  door.  And  both  women  felt  their 
ignorant,  puzzled  inferiority  in  these 
recondite  matters  of  travel,  and  the 
comfort  of  having  an  omniscient  male 
in  the  house. 

Then  slightly  drawing  up  his  dark 
blue  trousers  with  an  accustomed  move- 
ment, he  carefully  sat  down  on  the 
Chesterfield,  and  stroked  his  soft  black 
mustache  (which  was  estimably  long 
for  a  fellow  of  twenty-three)  and  patted 
his  black  hair. 

"Rachel,  you  didn't  fasten  that  land- 
ing window,  after  all!"  said  Mrs.  Mal- 
don, looking  over  Louis'  head  at  the 
lady-companion,  who  hesitated  mod- 
estly near  the  door.  "I've  tried,  but 
I  couldn't." 

"Neither  could  I,  Mrs.  Maldon," 
said  Rachel.  "I  was  thinking  perhaps 
Mr.  Fores  wouldn't  mind — " 


Painting  by  C.  E.  Chambers 

HE    BEGAN    A    SERIES   OF    ACTS    ON    THE    PETT  Y-OSH  BOOK 


WORDS 


67 


She  did  not  explain  that  her  failure 
to  fasten  the  window  had  been  more  or 
less  deliberate,  since,  while  actually 
tugging  at  the  window,  she  had  been 
visited  by  the  sudden  delicious  thought: 
"How  nice  it  would  be  to  ask  Louis 
Fores  to  do  this  hard  thing  for  me!" 

And  now  she  had  asked  him. 

"Certainly!"  Louis  jumped  to  his 
feet.  And  off  he  went  up-stairs.  Most 
probably,  if  the  sudden  delicious 
thought  had  not  skipped  into  Rachel's 
brain,  he  would  never  have  made  that 
critical  ascent  to  the  first  floor. 

A  gas-jet  burned  low  on  the  landing. 

"Let's  have  a  little  light  on  the 
subject,"  he  cheerfully  muttered  to 
himself,  as  he  turned  on  the  gas  to 
the  full. 

Then  in  the  noisy  blaze  of  yellow  and 
blue  light  he  went  to  the  window  and 
with  a  single  fierce  wrench  he  succeeded 
in  pulling  the  catch  into  position.  He 
was  proud  of  his  strength.  It  pleased 
him  to  think  of  the  weakness  of  women; 
it  pleased  him  to  anticipate  the  im- 
pressed thanks  of  the  weak  women  for 

[to  be  c 


this  exertion  of  his  power  on  their 
behalf.  "Have  you  managed  it  so 
soon?"  his  aunt  would  exclaim,  and  he 
would  answer  in  a  carefully  oflPhand 
way:  "Of  course.    Why  not?" 

He  was  about  to  descend,  but  he  re- 
membered that  he  must  not  leave  the 
gas  at  full.  With  his  hand  on  the  tap, 
he  glanced  perfunctorily  around  the 
little  landing.  The  door  of  Mrs.  Mal- 
don's  bedroom  was  in  front  of  him,  at 
right  angles  to  the  window.  By  the 
door,  which  was  ajar,  stood  a  cane- 
seated  chair.  Underneath  the  chair 
he  perceived  a  whitish  package  or  roll 
that  seemed  to  be  out  of  place  there 
on  the  floor.  He  stooped  and  picked 
it  up.  And  as  the  paper  rustled  pe- 
culiarly in  his  hand,  he  could  feel  his 
heart  give  a  swift  bound.  He  opened 
the  roll.  It  consisted  of  nothing  what- 
ever but  bank-notes.  He  listened  in- 
tently, with  ear  cocked  and  rigid  limbs; 
and  he  could  just  catch  the  soothing 
murmur  of  women's  voices  in  the  par- 
lor, beneath  the  reverberating  solemn 
pulse  of  the  lobby  clock. 

OINUED.] 


Words 

BY  ERNEST  RHYS 

WORDS,  like  fine  flowers,  have  their  colors,  too: 
What  do  you  say  to  crimson  words  or  yellow? 
And  what  to  opal,  emerald,  pale  blue? 

And  elfish  gules? — he  is  a  glorious  fellow. 
Think  of  the  purple  hung  in  Elsinore, 

Or  call  it  black,  and  close  your  eyes  to  see. 
Go,  look  for  amber  then  on  Lochlyn  shore 

And  drag  a  sunbeam  out  of  Arcady; 
And  who  of  Rosamund  or  Rosalind 

Can  part  the  rosy  petal'd  syllables? 
Since  women's  names  keep  murmuring  like  the  wind 

The  hidden  thing  that  none  for  ever  tells. 
Last,  to  forego  soft  beauty,  take  the  sword, 
And  see  the  blue  steel  redden  at  a  word. 


Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.-9 


The  Luxury  of  Being  Educated 


BY  HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY 


Assistant  Professor  of  English,  Yale  University 


TRAVELED  for  a  long 
day  last  year  across  the 
Kansas  prairies  with  a 
very  typical  group  of 
graduates  from  Amer- 
ican colleges.  They 
were  from  the  East,  the 
Middle  West,  and  the  Far  West,  brought 
together  merely  by  the  exigency  of  the 
moment,  like  a  Freshman  class  in  col- 
lege. The  journey  was  quiet;  we  sat  in 
the  club-car  at  our  ease,  and  conversa- 
tion was  general.  I  was  struck  by  the 
narrow  range  of  this  conversation. 
Whether  it  flowed  freely  among  a  group 
at  the  observation  end  of  the  car,  or  be- 
came more  intimate  when  chairs  were 
drawn  together  by  the  bufFet,  a  few 
topics — business  conditions,  real  estate, 
anecdotes,  and  reminiscences — seemed  to 
bound  it.  Interest  did  not  go  further. 
The  men  themselves  were  far  from  unin- 
teresting. From  the  Oregon  apple- 
grower  to  the  New  York  broker,  every 
one  was  a  factor  somehow  or  somewhere 
in  American  life.  They  were  not  unin- 
teresting; but  they  were  uninterested, 
except  in  their  narrow  ranges.  The  bro- 
ker's interest  in  apple  culture  went  no 
further  than  its  financial  aspects;  the 
apple-grower's  interest  in  Wall  Street 
was  romantic  merely;  both  yawned 
when  I  talked  of  the  Russian  story  I  was 
reading,  or  tried  to  follow  through  the 
window  the  route  of  the  Santa  Fe  trail. 
There  was  nothing  novel  in  this  experi- 
ence; but  it  was  illuminating.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  these  men  had  failed  to  get 
their  money's  worth  of  education. 

It  is  very  curious  that  so  few  care,  or 
dare,  to  get  their  money's  worth  from 
the  American  college.  The  poor  man 
gets  the  best  returns.  He  must  ask  the 
college  first  of  all  to  make  his  boy  self- 
supporting — if  possible,  more  efficient 
than  his  father;  and  he  gets,  as  a  rule, 
what  he  pays  for.  But  the  poor  man  is 
not  the  typical  college  parent.  The  typ- 
ical parent  of  our  undergraduates  has 


stored  up  more  or  less  capital;  he  has  a 
position  waiting  for  his  son;  his  boy  will 
be  able  to  live  comfortably,  no  matter 
what  may  be  the  efficiency  of  his  mind. 
The  ability  to  support  himself,  the  power 
to  make  money,  is  certainly  not  the  most 
important  quality  for  this  boy  to  possess. 
Very  commonly,  especially  in  the  en- 
dowed institutions  of  the  East,  money- 
making  in  his  family  has  reached  the 
saturation  point.  It  is  unnecessary;  it 
may  be  inadvisable,  or  even  wrong,  for 
him  to  enter  gainful  pursuits.  What  the 
son  of  parents  in  comfortable  circum- 
stances requires  is  not  so  much  a  narrow 
training  in  the  support  of  life  as  a 
broader  one  in  how  to  utilize  living.  His 
interests,  quite  as  much  as  his  mental 
powers,  need  stimulus,  development,  and 
discipline.- 

I  know  that  in  stating  the  situation  so 
flatly  I  run  head  on  into  an  American 
tradition — or  prejudice.  The  American 
democracy — even  when  in  no  other  way 
democratic — believes  that  the  American 
boy,  though  millions  may  hang  over  his 
head,  must  work  for  his  living,  must 
make  money.  With  a  righteous  fear  lest 
his  moral  fiber  degenerate  in  useless 
studies,  the  well-to-do  father  grudgingly 
allows  his  son  to  enter  college,  reminds 
him  constantly  that  the  nonsense  will  be 
knocked  out  of  him  as  soon  as  he  gradu- 
ates, and  hurries  him  into  business  as 
quickly  as  the  faculty  allows,  breathing 
relief  when  he  is  safe  in  an  atmosphere 
where  labor  is  measured  by  returns  in 
cash.  If  there  were  danger  of  starvation 
ahead  he  could  not  be  more  anxious  to 
fix  his  son's  mind  on  the  duty  of  earning 
ten  dollars  a  week.  I  do  not  blame  the 
fathers — even  in  the  instances  to  which  I 
limit  myself — the  well-to-do  parents  of 
intellectually  able  sons.  They  are  apply- 
ing the  American  tradition  as  it  was 
applied  to  them.  But  what  is  the  effect 
on  the  boys? 

Sometimes  it  is  good;  often  it  is  un- 
fortunate; occasionally  it  is  disastrous. 


THE  LUXURY  OF 


BEING  EDUCATED 


69 


A  Junior  comes  into  my  office  for  a  talk. 
He  is  clear-eyed  and  intelligent,  but 
conventional  from  his  clothes  to  his  con- 
versation. His  father  controls  an  enor- 
mous business,  and  he  is  to  begin  at  the 
bottom  of  the  corporation  as  soon  as  he 
graduates.  I  gasp  at  the  figures  of  out- 
put and  return  that  he  casually  men- 
tions. I  wonder  just  how  he  will  regard 
the  responsibility  which  the  course  of 
events  will  certainly  bring.  The  pros- 
pect does  not  worry  him  in  the  least. 
He  has  inherited  shrewdness  and  self- 
confidence.  He'll  "do  as  dad  did."  But 
of  interest  in  the  problems  and  the  possi- 
bilities involved  in  this  vast  ownership 
I  discover  not  a  particle;  and  little  more 
in  what  his  means  will  enable  him  to  do 
with  his  life.  A  fast  motor,  a  country 
club,  a  good  boat,  a  yearly  trip  to  Paris 
— his  ambitions  go  no  further.  Among 
his  college  courses,  English  composition 
interests  him  because  "dad"  says  he'll 
have  to  write  good  business  letters;  eco- 
nomics a  little  because  it  deals  with  cash; 
English  literature  in  a  barely  discover- 
able degree  because  of  the  useful  culture 
which  is  supposed  to  flow  from  it.  All 
the  rest  of  the  world  of  knowledge — 
historical,  scientific,  esthetic — is  a  dull 
blank.  It  does  not  interest  him  now;  it 
will  never  interest  him. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the  col- 
lege can  ever  make  an  intellectual  of 
such  a  youth;  nor  should  it  try  to  do  so. 
But  if  we  could  have  interested  him  in 
ideas;  if  we  could  have  extended  and 
lifted  the  range  of  his  pleasures;  wid- 
ened and  deepened  his  conceptions  of 
commerce;  given  him  a  "social  con- 
science"— we  would  have  accomplished 
something.  It  is  not  to  the  credit  of  the 
college  that  the  time-spirit  in  this  youth 
was  too  strong  for  its  influence  to  com- 
bat; but  the  blame  does  not  rest  en- 
tirely upon  the  faculty.  "Dad"  must 
share  the  responsibility.  He  sent  the 
boy  to  us  with  eyes  closed  to  everything 
but  money-making  and  fun.  Perhaps 
this  youngster  will  put  all  his  energies 
into  doubling  the  family  fortune;  more 
probably  he  will  discover  the  weakness 
in  the  American  tradition  of  work,  break 
through  it,  and  enjoy  himself  according 
to  his  lights.  Of  these  undesirable  alter- 
natives, the  second  is  at  least  the  more 
human  and  perhaps  the  more  rational. 


But  the  youth  whose  plight  arouses 
my  sympathy  and  indignation  is  of  a 
different  type.  His  kind  is  not  so  abun- 
dant in  the  colleges,  but  its  numbers  are 
increasing  yearly.  He  best  represents, 
I  think,  the  new  generation  of  educated 
Americans. 

I  knew  him  first  in  Freshman  year:  a 
pleasant  boy,  well-mannered,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  lived  in  a  cultivated 
home.  He  was  not  an  "  honor  man  ";  he 
seemed  afraid  to  throw  himself  into  his 
work.  And  yet  his  finer  accent,  his  oc- 
casional interest  in  music,  art,  and  books, 
made  his  classmates  a  little  shy  of  him. 
He  was  said  to  be,  possibly,  a  "high- 
brow," or  a  "  freak."  But  he  was  a  good 
athlete  in  a  small  way,  and  a  good 
mixer. 

As  soon  as  he  learned  the  conven- 
tional fashion  in  dressing,  and  acquired 
the  proper  slang — which  the  boys  from 
the  big  "prep,  schools"  had  from  the 
beginning — he  got  on  very  well.  He 
"made  a  society,"  was  on  the  track 
team,  wrote  for  the  papers;  bade  fair  to 
have  an  exemplary  college  career,  and  to 
become  one  of  the  fine  fellows  who  merge 
indistinguishably  into  a  common  type 
and  depart  as  one  man  from  college. 

However,  in  Junior  year  came  a  reac- 
tion. I  have  seen  it  hundreds  of  times — 
a  faint  dawn  of  intellectual  awakening; 
a  sudden  interest  in  the  world  as  distin- 
guished from  college  life.  The  mind 
grips  upon  knowledge  and  moves  slowly 
with  it,  as  the  wheels  move  when  the 
gears  of  an  automobile  engine  slide  into 
first  speed.  He  was  roused  to  an  enthu- 
siasm of  thinking  by  a  stimulating  book. 
Ideas  which  he  did  not  fancy  began  to 
anger  him — a  sure  sign  of  intellectual 
progress.  He  began  to  ask  intelligent 
questions.  Then  he  fell  into  a  depres- 
sion over  his  ignorance.  He  began  to 
criticize  the  curriculum.  Men  talked  in 
his  room  till  late  at  night.  He  bought 
special  cigarettes  and  posed  for  a  little 
while  as  an  esthete.  But  when  he  de- 
voted a  month  of  a  summer  vacation  to 
reading  up  on  religion,  and  came  to  a 
conclusion  (so  it  seemed  to  me)  as  origi- 
nal as  it  was  wrong,  I  felt  sure  that  we 
were  dealing  with  a  mind. 

This  youth  came  from  a  family  in 
which  cultivation  and  reasonable  wealth 
had  been  hereditary  for  several  genera- 


70 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


tions.  There  was  no  pressing  need  for 
him  in  the  family  business,  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  be  educated  to  the 
full;  in  fact,  his  parents  prided  them- 
selves on  the  education  which  they  were 
giving  their  son.  And  yet,  when  Senior 
year  came,  and  his  desire  for  knowledge 
awakened  with  the  approach  of  the  end 
of  the  conventional  period  of  training, 
clouds  appeared  on  the  domestic  horizon. 
I  gathered  that  he  was  not  sufficiently 
anxious  to  enter  business;  that  he  did 
not  know  what  he  wished  to  do;  that 
college  seemed  to  be  making  him  un- 
practical. I  was  consulted  as  a  friend, 
first  by  him,  then  by  his  mother.  I  told 
his  anxious  mother  that  her  boy  needed 
to  learn  more,  to  think  more,  before  put- 
ting his  knowledge  and  his  desires  to  the 
test  of  practice;  that,  if  their  means  per- 
mitted it,  nothing  would  be  so  good  for 
him  as  a  little  more  education.  She 
thanked  me — and  sought  a  more  prac- 
tical adviser,  who  suggested  that  the 
youth  be  put  into  the  bond  business  so 
that  he  should  waste  no  time  while  mak- 
ing up  his  mind  as  to  his  future  profes- 
sion !  If  he  had  wished  to  be  a  lawyer,  or 
a  doctor,  or  an  engineer,  they  would 
gladly  have  given  him  the  extra  years 
of  preparation.  But  he  merely  wished 
to  think  and  to  know:  to  study  more 
economics,  more  history;  to  read  widely; 
to  carry  through  some  guided  work  in 
social  service,  until  he  could  shape  his 
philosophy  of  life,  control  his  mind,  and 
find  out  what  he  wished  to  do  with  his 
powers.  And  this,  coming  in  no  recog- 
nized category  of  youthful  endeavor,  was 
unpractical,  aimless,  or  leading  perhaps 
to  idleness  and  eccentricity.  He  must 
get  to  work! 

They  chose  wisely,  according  to  their 
lights.  I  think  that  this  youth  would 
have  responded  to  the  intellectual  stimu- 
lus which  the  university  could  have 
given  him.  I  think  that  he  might  have 
been  led  into  study  for  its  own  sake, 
into  research,  perhaps  into  teaching. 
Having  means,  he  would  have  been  able 
to  follow  his  bent  wherever  it  led  him, 
and  taste  of  the  delights  and  the  rigors 
of  academic  life,  without  its  meannesses 
and  its  sordid  cares.  He  would  have  cut 
loose  from  business  for  ever,  and  perhaps 
distinguished  himself.  But  distinction 
of  that  kind  did  not  interest  his  family. 


They  have  made  a  mediocre  business 
man  of  him;  and  if  that  is  what  they 
wanted,  they  have  moved  sagaciously. 
Nevertheless,  I  do  not  believe  in  their 
lights. 

I  am  far  from  urging  that  all  thought- 
ful, intellectually  hungry  boys  should  be 
drawn  into  the  academic  life.  Hundreds 
of  youngsters  like  the  one  I  have  de- 
scribed would  have  carried  the  profits  of 
a  fuller  education  into  business  and  the 
professions.  As  business  men,  they 
would  have  gained  in  mental  power,  but 
most  of  all  in  a  sense  of  proportion  and 
a  better  understanding  of  the  aims,  the 
advantages,  and  the  possibilities  of  the 
life  they  were  choosing.  As  lawyers  or 
doctors  or  engineers,  their  efficiency 
surely  would  not  have  suffered  from  a 
broader  outlook  upon  other  aspects  of 
the  world's  interests  and  the  world's 
work,  and  their  lives  would  have  gained 
much.  That  this  fuller  education,  with 
the  keener  interest  in  life  which  comes 
with  it,  would  have  been  a  luxury  for 
such  men,  I  readily  grant.  But  this  is 
the  age  of  luxuries.  The  same  parent 
who  balks  at  an  extra  year  of  education 
lavishes  automobiles,  large  incomes,  and 
less  desirable  favors  upon  his  chil- 
dren. Most  fathers  who  send  their  sons 
to  college  regard  luxuries  as  a  right — if 
not  automobiles,  riding-horses,  good  pic- 
tures, and  yachts,  at  least  warm  houses, 
electricity,  travel,  and  far  more  expen- 
sive food  than  is  needed  for  sustenance. 
Granted  that  an  education  beyond  the 
requirements  for  self-support,  but  well 
within  the  demands  of  an  active,  pleas- 
urable, intelligent  life,  is  a  luxury,  are 
there  not  many  Americans  who  can 
afford  it? 

I  am  assured  that  the  best  thinkers  in 
the  educational  world  are  spending  their 
energies  not  on  lengthening,  but  in  short- 
ening, the  period  of  education;  in  cutting 
down  waste,  in  increasing  efficiency.  I 
can  reply  that  such  work  is  invaluable. 
Let  us  improve,  condense,  reform,  wher- 
ever we  can,  making  four-year  courses 
into  three,  if  they  teach  only  three  years' 
worth,  concentrating  and  improving  the 
work  in  our  schools  until  they  turn  out 
boys  of  sixteen  as  well  educated  as 
French  or  German  students  of  the  same 
age.  Let  us  save  what  time  we  can,  so 
that  the  youth  who  can  afford  no  more 


THE  LUXURY  OF  BEING  EDUCATED 


71 


education  than  that  provided  by  the 
usual  college  course  may  get  it  more 
speedily  or  more  efficiently.  But  it  is 
not  a  question  here  of  providing  the  best 
education  in  the  least  time  for  those  who 
must  hurl  themselves  into  the  economic 
struggle.  It  is  a  question  of  providing 
the  best  education,  regardless  of  time, 
for  the  boy  whose  struggle  will  be  not  so 
much  to  support  life  as  to  use  it  properly. 
If  such  an  education  is  a  luxury — and 
when  I  think  of  the  pre-eminent  need  of 
the  times  for  more  intelligence,  I  begin 
to  doubt  my  term — then  it  would  be 
easy  to  present  statistics  from  our  col- 
leges which  would  flatly  contradict  the 
platitude  that  in  all  things  America  is 
luxurious. 

If  the  parent  with  a  comfortable  liv- 
ing or  a  good  position  to  give  his  boy 
would  put  less  emphasis  on  the  rigors  of 
the  coming  financial  struggle,  and  more 
upon  the  advantages  of  a  well-opened 
mind,  the  effect  upon  the  college  would 
be  tremendous.  The  undergraduate 
would  feel  it  first  of  all.  Upon  many, 
the  influence,  it  is  true,  would  be  only 
indirect.  Out  of  a  college  class  of,  say, 
three  hundred,  perhaps  fifty  are  merely 
well-dressed,  agreeable  young  animals, 
whose  minds  have  already  attained  their 
maximum  of  breadth.  It  is  a  fair  ques- 
tion whether  they  are  not  already  spend- 
ing too  much  time  in  education.  Per- 
haps one  hundred  and  fifty  belong  to  the 
great  average — which  is,  after  all,  made 
up  of  too  many  varieties  to  be  called  an 
average.  Dull  men,  who  work,  never- 
theless, with  faithfulness;  bright  men, 
lazy  by  nature;  busy  men,  far  too  much 
concerned  with  social  or  commercial  suc- 
cess to  spend  much  more  energy  in 
thinking:  all  these  would  feel  that  the 
world  outside  was  beginning  to  value 
culture  and  the  intellect,  and,  without 
radically  changing  their  habits  or  their 
aims,  would  nevertheless  manage  to  get 
what  they  felt  to  be  their  share  of  men- 
tal broadening.  But  it  is  of  the  remain- 
ing one  hundred  that  I  write:  the  men 
who  are  not  content  to  take  at  second- 
hand, or  do  without  the  illumination  of 
the  last  century  of  science,  or  the  accu- 
mulated knowledge  and  inspiration  of  the 
earlier  world;  the  men  whose  minds  are 
opening  and  are  worth  opening.  Many 
of  them  are  eager  for  active  life,  and  will 


not  wait  for  more  education;  many  of 
them  are  poor  and  cannot  wait;  but 
many  more  would  choose  the  luxury  of 
a  deeper  preparation  if  anxious  parents, 
moved  by  a  short-sighted  public  opinion, 
did  not  force  them,  still  immature,  into 
the  world.  They  may  know  the  text, 
"Man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone"; 
but  in  the  face  of  practical  adults  assert- 
ing the  contrary,  and  urging  them  to 
come  out  and  earn  their  living,  they  are 
not  likely  to  apply  it.  For  it  takes  a 
clearer  sight,  a  stronger  will,  and  more 
independence  than  even  the  exceptional 
boy  is  likely  to  possess,  to  see  that  edu- 
cation in  some  instances  may  be  the  first 
and  most  important  profession. 

The  effect  upon  the  professor  of  a  more 
generous  parental  attitude  toward  edu- 
cation would  be  as  great  as  upon  the 
undergraduate,  and  more  calculable. 
The  college,  as  distinguished  from  the 
technical  school,  has  always  proposed,  as 
its  ideal,  to  educate  for  living — and  this 
term  includes  both  earning  one's  living 
and  enjoying  it.  The  difficulty  now  is 
that  the  faculty,  the  parent,  and  the 
undergraduate  each  grasp  their  interpre- 
tation of  this  broad  purpose  and  pull  as 
hard  as  they  can  in  different  directions. 

The  faculty,  on  the  whole,  lean  too  far 
toward  the  idealistic  side  of  this  educa- 
tion. The  extremists  among  them  main- 
tain that  in  college  a  boy  should  study 
nothing  practical,  nothing  with  poten- 
tialities of  money-making.  But  educa- 
tion is  surely  broader  than  they  think. 
It  is  a  poor  education  which  in  teaching 
a  comprehension  of  living  does  not  help 
toward  earning  the  daily  bread.  In 
truth,  it  is,  and  I  suppose  it  always  will 
be,  a  fault  of  our  profession  that  we  turn 
away  from  the  utilitarian  aspects  of  our 
subjects,  and  are  more  interested  in 
their  cultural  than  in  their  commercial 
value.  Our  lack  of  experience  in  turning 
thought  into  dollars  makes  us  unduly 
depreciate  what  might  be  called  the  busi- 
ness end  of  a  liberal  education. 

But  where  this  error  exists  we  have 
been  driven  into  it  by  the  obstinacy  of 
parents,  who  will  not  see  that  the  power 
to  make  money  is  only  a  by-product  of 
education — by  well-to-do  parents  espe- 
cially, who  send  us  youngsters  who  will 
have  to  assume  vast  responsibilities  and 
use  vast  opportunities  for  service  and 


72 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


pleasure,  saying,  Teach  my  youthful 
millionaire  how  to  make  more  money! 
We  have  had  to  fight  an  ingrained 
American  prejudice;  no  wonder  that  we 
have  become  a  little  prejudiced  ourselves 
in  the  course  of  the  struggle. 

For  all  these  reasons,  the  reactive 
effect  of  even  a  portion  of  a  class  sent  to 
college  in  sympathy  with  the  ideals  of 
the  college  professor — which  are,  after 
all,  those  of  a  true  liberal  education — 
would  be  very  great.  We  would  not 
turn  out  geniuses,  or  make  over  America; 
but  that  deathly  indifference,  sprung 
of  conflicting  aims,  which  hangs  like  a 
fog-bank  over  the  American  college, 
would  lift  and  lighten.  The  inefficiency 
which  is  to  be  found  in  teaching  as  well 
as  in  business,  and  the  inherent  laziness 
of  the  human  animal,  would  prevent  a 
too  rapid  clearing  of  the  atmosphere. 
We  would  not  be  blinded  by  the  flash. 
But  I  think  that  professor  and  father 
and  son  might  begin  to  work  together 
toward  a  common  purpose;  and  that 
the  teacher  would  teach  more  broadly 
and  more  successfully  the  things  which 
knowledge  can  contribute  to  life. 

But  if  education  should  be  numbered 
among  the  permitted  luxuries  of  Amer- 
ican life,  the  greatest  effect  would  be  on 
a  department  of  the  university  which 
means  little  now  to  the  undergraduate 
and  less  than  little  to  the  American  par- 
ent. I  mean  the  graduate  school,  the 
business  of  which  is  to  give  advanced 
training  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 
The  well-to-do  parent  is  not  especially 
interested  in  the  productive  activities  of 
the  graduate  school,  and  I  do  not  see 
why  he  should  be.  He  thinks  of  it,  if  he 
thinks  of  it  at  all,  as  a  highly  specialized 
laboratory  for  turning  out  unreadable 
treatises  on  the  sources  of  unreadable 
plays;  or  accounts  of  ridiculously  named 
chemical  compounds;  or  pamphlets  on 
Sanscrit  inflections;  or  philosophical 
theories  whose  very  titles  he  does  not 
understand.  It  is  absurd  to  maintain 
that  he  should  be  vitally  interested,  be- 
cause these  represent  the  outposts  of 
knowledge.  No  one  blames  him  for  a 
lack  of  interest  in  the  valves  of  a  steam 
turbine,  in  how  to  modify  milk  for  a  ten 
months'  baby,  in  the  manufacture  of 
breakfast  foods.  These  things  also  are 
important.   He  cannot  afford  to  despise 


them  because  they  lie  beyond  his  metier; 
but  enthusiasm  is  not  demanded  of  him. 

In  another  phase  of  the  graduate 
school,  however,  he  might  well  be  more 
interested.  I  mean  in  the  opportunities 
it  offers,  or  could  offer,  to  his  boy.  We 
have  heard  much  of  what  the  graduate 
schools  can  do  for  the  country.  I  am 
more  concerned  just  now  with  what  they 
might  do  for  the  undergraduate  who  is 
to  be  allowed  the  luxury  of  a  little  more 
education. 

My  own  experience  was  typical  only 
in  so  far  as  my  condition  resembled  that 
of  hundreds  of  boys,  who  come  to  Senior 
year  in  college  with  a  distressing  vague- 
ness of  aims,  a  feeling  of  incapacity,  and 
one  certainty  —  that  they  are  not  yet 
educated,  that  they  are  not  yet  ready 
to  enter  the  world.  As  it  happened,  I 
was  allowed  to  choose  the  path  of  the 
graduate  school. 

I  entered  uncertain,  doubtful  of  what 
interested  me,  guiltily  conscious  that  I 
ought  to  be  earning  ten  dollars  a  week  in 
an  office  or  a  mill.  I  found  myself  in  a 
new  atmosphere.  We  were  starting  over 
again;  we  were  boasting  of  our  igno- 
rance; we  were  clamoring  for  knowledge; 
yearning  for  opportunities  to  study  in  a 
field  which  grew  wider  and  wider  under 
our  touch.  Far  from  separating  our- 
selves from  life,  we  seemed  to  grow  for 
the  first  time  acutely  conscious  of  it. 
Reality,  instead  of  being  a  simple  affair 
of  making  money,  marrying,  and  dying, 
began  to  grow  vast,  complex,  and  infi- 
nitely interesting.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  we  held  ourselves  to  the  little  seg- 
ment which  was  assigned  to  us  for  study. 
Our  thoughts  leaped  ahead — though  still 
vaguely — to  the  practical,  concrete  work 
we  must  do,  and  we  were  distressed  at 
the  opportunities  for  knowledge  which 
must  be  left  behind  us.  Ennui  became 
unthinkable;  idleness  a  crime.  Yet  we 
were  boys  still,  and  intensely  human 
boys.  We  sat  late  with  beer  and  pipes, 
and  talked  nonsense  far  more  effectively 
than  in  undergraduate  days;  we  took  up 
athletics,  which  in  college  we  had  left  to 
the  teams;  we  were  even  merrier  be- 
cause our  mirth  came  as  a  reaction  from 
hard  work.  When  we  compared  experi- 
ences with  the  intellectually  sympathetic 
among  our  classmates  who  had  gone  out 
into  the  world,  we  found  that  they,  too, 


THE  LUXURY  OF  BEING  EDUCATED 


73 


had  felt  the  spring  and  the  stimulus  of 
directed,  purposeful  endeavor.  But  ex- 
cept where  they  had  already  discovered 
a  career,  their  enthusiasm  was  less  than 
ours,  their  energies  not  so  active;  they 
did  not  seem  to  be  on  such  good  terms 
with  life. 

Of  course,  in  a  way,  we  were  special- 
ists, and  this  seems  to  remove  my  per- 
sonal experience  from  the  argument  I 
am  advancing  for  the  luxury  of  a  full 
education.  In  reality,  I  think,  it  does 
not.  For  we  were  specialists  only  by 
compulsion,  because,  since  most  of  us 
were  preparing  for  teaching  or  scholar- 
ship, we  knew  that  we  must  confine  most 
of  our  labors  to  one  field.  And  I  think 
that  it  was,  and  is,  one  of  the  defects  of 
the  graduate  school  that  it  drives  too 
quickly  into  the  more  highly  specialized 
branches  of  knowledge;  that  it  puts  all 
the  emphasis  upon  preparation  for  schol- 
arly production,  just  as  the  world  out- 
side puts  all  the  emphasis  upon  money- 
making. 

In  fact,  the  graduate  school  looked 
with  a  hardly  concealed  contempt  upon 
the  candidates  for  a  simple  M.A.  degree, 
who  would  not  go  to  the  bitter  end  of 
any  one  line  of  endeavor,  who  were  seek- 
ing merely  a  further  preparation  for  life. 
And  that  was  its  weakness.  There  it 
shared — though  the  accusation  would 
have  angered  its  professors — the  Amer- 
ican prejudice  against  the  luxury  of  a 
general  education.  In  all  that  seething 
intellectual  life,  with  its  burning  inter- 
ests and  increasing  powers,  many  of 
them  saw  no  health  except  in  the  student 
dedicated  to  research.  Those  who  left 
us  by  the  way — for  the  law,  for  business, 
for  diplomacy,  or  for  literature — they  re- 
garded as  strayed  sheep. 

No  one  who  knows  the  results  would 
be  so  blind  as  to  attack  the  value  of  that 
specialization  in  research  which  has  al- 
ready placed  our  graduate  schools  beside 
those  of  Germany  and  France.  But  why 
have  we  failed  to  realize  that  in  the 
means  they  offer  for  fulfilling  a  general 
education  they  can  satisfy  a  real  need  of 
contemporary  America?  The  life  we 
tasted  there  would  be  better  for  many  a 
thoughtful,  hesitating  Senior  I  have 
known  since  than  a  half-hearted  plunge 
into  a  world  which  did  not  yet  interest 
him;   a  year  or  so  later  it  would  have 


sent  him,  eager  and  enthusiastic,  into 
an  activity  which  his  broadening  mind 
could  have  chosen  for  itself. 

It  is  easy  to  blame  America  and  the 
American  parent  for  parsimony  in  edu- 
cation, but  it  is  not  very  satisfactory. 
To  begin  with,  it  is  futile  to  blame  a 
tendency,  and  the  American  attitude 
toward  liberal  education  is  a  tendency 
— and  an  inherited  tendency,  which 
makes  it  all  the  more  difficult  to  es- 
cape. The  American  parent  has,  as  a 
rule,  but  recently  attained  economic  in- 
dependence and  ended  his  up-hill  climb. 
His  sons  can  start  on  the  level;  they  will 
not  have  to  climb  as  he  climbed.  But 
climbing  is  what  he  best  understands; 
and  he  must  be  liberal-minded  and  a 
little  prophetic  in  his  vision  if  he  does 
not  send  his  boys  to  college  to  prepare 
for  the  needs,  not  of  their  generation, 
but  his  own. 

It  is  easy  to  blame  the  undergraduate 
for  not  striving  harder  for  the  kind  of 
education  which  will  make  him  most 
happy  and  most  useful.  But  to  what 
advantage?  The  patient  is  not  blamed 
when  the  wrong  medicine,  or  too  little 
medicine,  is  prescribed  for  him!  And 
furthermore,  that  minority  of  our  under- 
graduates who  really  need  more  educa- 
tion are  asking  for  it,  are  struggling  for 
it,  though  often  in  a  blind  and  half- 
conscious  fashion.  Every  college  teacher 
not  case-hardened  in  intellectual  superi- 
ority knows  and  is  rejoiced  by  this  fact. 

In  truth,  the  college  teacher  must  take 
his  share  of  responsibility  for  the  nig- 
gardliness of  American  education.  I 
suppose  that  we  realize  the  essential 
importance  in  contemporary  life  of  the 
intelligence  which  comes  from  a  full  edu- 
cation, but  I  confess  that  I  think  we 
do  not  always  act  upon  our  realization. 
I  find  myself  constantly  resisting  the 
temptation  to  say:  "This,  gentlemen, 
will  not  interest  you:  it  leads  to  an 
appreciation  of  life;  it  shows  how  to  rise 
to  the  possibilities  of  living;  but  it 
will  never  make  a  cent  for  you,  and  it  is 
difficult.  You  must  study  it;  but  you 
won't  be  interested. "  I  hate  this  hie- 
rophantic,  better-than-thou  attitude  in 
myself  or  any  other  teacher.  What 
right  have  we  to  assume  that  the  higher 
realms  of  the  intellect  are  reserved  for 
the  scholar  and  the  theorist?  What  right 


74 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


to  smile  superciliously  at  all  interest  in 
knowledge  which  does  not  lead  directly 
toward  scholarly  production?  What  is 
gained  by  asserting  that  study  must  be 
bleak  and  austere;  that  learning  must 
be  unworldly  and  exclusive?  The  col- 
leges also  have  been  indisposed  to  allow 
the  competent — who  do  not  wish  to  be- 
come specialists — the  luxury  of  a  full 
education. 

Conclusions  will  quickly  be  reached 
by  those  who  take  the  trouble  to  look 
about  them.  We  are  not  so  rooted  in 
our  prejudice  against  work  that  is  im- 
measurable by  cash  as  to  have  produced 
no  examples  of  those  who  are  profiting 
themselves  or  the  country  by  the  luxuri- 
ous excess  of  their  education.  The  young 
millionaire  who  is  using  his  wealth  effi- 
ciently, enthusiastically,  wisely  for  social 
service  and  social  knowledge,  is  no  longer 
so  rare  as  to  be  unfamiliar,  though  he  is 
still  a  curiosity.  He  is  drawing  divi- 
dends for  himself  and  others  from  a 
deeper  comprehension  of  the  needs  of 
society  than  experience  without  educa- 
tion could  have  given  him.  And  many 
a  man  not  a  millionaire,  though  master 
of  his  income,  is  using  his  business  or  his 
profession  for  broad  and  interesting  ser- 
vices to  the  community,  made  possible 
by  the  knowledge  and  the  interests  with 
which  education  has  endowed  him.  Less 
valuable,  perhaps,  and  yet  invaluable 
in  a  genuine  civilization,  is  another  and 
more  familiar  type:  the  business  man 
or  lawyer  who  has  learned  how  to  live 
outside  his  office;  whose  pleasures  are 
not  limited  to  the  physical  and  the 
sensual;  who  has  a  hinterland,  a  back- 
ground, as  H.  G.  Wells  puts  it;  who  is 
a  cultivated,  sympathetic,  intelligent, 
broad-minded  man  first,  and  a  good 
business  man  or  lawyer  afterward.  This, 
too,  is  a  product  of  education — an  almost 


inevitable  result  of  a  full  and  true  edu- 
cation, when  the  mind  is  capable  of 
receiving  and  profiting  by  the  riches  of 
knowledge  and  the  stimulus  of  ideas. 

Observe,  on  the  other  hand,  the  sons 
of  parents  in  comfortable  circumstances, 
the  boys  who  were  guaranteed  a  fair 
start  in  life  whenever  and  however  they 
entered  upon  practical  work,  and  who 
sought  only  the  utilitarian  in  college. 
Have  they  gained  by  their  loss  of  culture 
and  a  broad  education  ?  Are  they  more 
useful  to  the  community,  more  interest- 
ing to  themselves;  are  they  happier? 
Those  who  left  us  when  their  interests 
were  just  awakening — have  they  gained 
by  the  year  or  so  of  time  they  have 
saved  ? 

Consider  those  familiar  figures  in 
American  life:  the  bored  youth  selling 
bonds  "to  keep  doing  something";  the 
half-hearted  successor  to  a  big  business 
who  lets  his  subordinates  carry  most  of 
the  work;  the  wealthy  youngster  who 
conducts  a  gambling  business  on  the 
stock-exchange  because  he  must  have 
some  excitement;  the  rich  idler  too  intel- 
ligent to  find  the  usual  means  of  time- 
killing  efficacious;  the  heir  to  a  million 
making  more  money  doggedly  because 
he  doesn't  know  what  else  to  do.  Some 
of  these  misfittings,  no  doubt,  arise  from 
difficulties  of  temperament,  or  defects 
in  character;  but  many  of  them  are  due 
simply  and  solely  to  insufficient  educa- 
tion. These  men  have  not  been  raised 
intellectually  to  the  level  of  their  oppor- 
tunities. Their  interests  are  still  dor- 
mant. Nothing  very  serious  is  the  mat- 
ter with  them;  they  get  along  well 
enough  according  co  common  opinion. 
More  education,  whether  in  college  or 
in  graduate  school,  was  not  a  necessity; 
it  was  a  luxury;  but  it  was  a  luxury  they 
could  well  have  afforded. 


Performing  for  Matthew 


BY  CLARENCE  DAY,  JR. 


HENEVER  my  brother 
Talbot  comes  to  see  us, 
it  appears  that  Matthew 
must  be  ordered  down 
from  the  nursery  to  per- 
form for  him.  I  can't 
say  I  like  it.  It's  not 
especially  good  for  the  boy  and  it's  tire- 
some for  me. 

Too  much  effort  is  put  into  all  human 
intercourse,  anyway;  that's  the  amount 
of  it.  Social  meetings  should  be  effort- 
less and  easy;  anxious  attempts  to  please 
are  a  mistake.  This  is  well  understood 
at  one's  club.  When  men  meet  there 
they  don't  immediately  sing  or  play  for 
one  another,  or  drag  one  another  around 
the  rooms  pointing  out  the  pictures. 
But  in  one's  home — ! 

I  am  a  man  of  strongly  domestic 
tastes.  Club  life  does  not  attract  me. 
I  like  my  home.  On  this  question  that  I 
am  speaking  of,  however,  my  wife's 
ideas  and  mine  do  not  coincide. 

And  whenever,  as  I  say,  my  brother 
Talbot  comes  to  see  us,  it  is  always, 
''Now,  Matthew,  recite  the  'Battle  of 
Blenheim'  for  Uncle  Teapot."  (That's 
what  they  call  him  —  Teapot.)  Or, 
"Matthew  knows  how  to  conjugate  his 
verbs  now,  Teapot.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  hear  him?" 

My  son  Matthew  is  not  a  trick  animal. 
The  other  day,  after  one  of  these 
exhibitions,  I  said:  "The  next  time  you 
come  here,  Talbot,  I  vote  that  instead  of 
having  Matthew  entertain  you,  you  en- 
tertain Matthew.  Turn  and  turn  about, 
you  know — that's  fair  play,  isn't  it?" 

I  did  not  make  this  suggestion  seri- 
ously, for  I  knew  it  would  scarcely  com- 
mend itself  to  Talbot,  but  I  thought 
it  might  help  bring  everybody  to  their 
senses. 

"I  entertain  Matthew?  What  good 
will  that  do?"  Talbot  asked. 

"What  good,"  I  retorted,  "does  this 
'  Blenheim '  business  do,  if  you  come  to 
that?" 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.— 10 


Talbot,  who  is  a  bachelor  and  knows 
nothing  about  it,  instantly  plunged  into 
his  lecture  on  education.  This  lecture 
begins  with  a  reminder  that  "educate" 
is  derived  from  e-duco,  meaning  /  draw 
out.  "Not  /  put  in,  mark  you,"  he 
always  continues.  Then  there  is  a  lot 
about  "stimulating  a  boy's  spirit" 
rather  than  "cluttering  up  his  memory." 
And  so  forth  and  so  on.  As  near  as  I 
can  make  out,  he  objects  to  information 
of  any  kind  being  imparted  to  the  young. 

"The  only  earthly  excuse  for  teaching 
this  boy  such  things  as  'Blenheim,'"  he 
said,  "or  verbs  either,  is  that  he  shall 
at  least  have  chances  to  recite  them 
afterward.  Reciting  them  cultivates 
his  power  of  expression,  his  powers  of 
flowering,  his  powers  of  giving  out, 
mark  you,  not  merely  putting  in." 

"Well,"  I  patiently  answered,  "you 
know  how  I  feel  about  it.  My  opinion 
is  that  it's  not  especially  good  for  the 
boy,  and  it's  tiresome  for  us.  But  that 
is  not  the  point  at  the  moment.  I  am 
a  reasonable  man.  Let  us  assume  that 
you're  right,  and  that  it's  beneficial  and 
ennobling  to  behave  like  trick  animals. 
What  I  say  is:  in  that  case,  sauce  for  the 
gosling  ought  to  be  sauce  for  the  gander. 
If  it  does  my  son  so  much  good  to  per- 
form for  you,  it  might  do  you  some  good 
to  perform  for  him." 

"Bah!"  Talbot  said,  looking  at  me 
suspiciously.  "That's  different,  Niblo." 
He  rose  to  go. 

Matthew  had  been  listening  all  this 
while — he  is  allowed  to  be  around  far 
too  much,  that  boy.  In  his  shrill,  un- 
pleasant voice,  which  he  doesn't  get  from 
me,  he  now  began  teasing  his  mother  to 
make  Talbot  perform,  and  she,  being  the 
boy's  slave,  backed  him  up.  She  said 
she  thought  "it  would  be  very  pleasant 
some  day."  So,  presently,  Talbot,  w  ho 
hates  to  be  found  unequal  to  any  emer- 
gency, said,  "Oh,  very  well,  if  you  wish 
it";  and  went  off,  giving  me  what  I  can 
only  describe  as  an  extremely  huffy  look. 


76 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


That  was  the  day  before  yesterday. 

To-day  Matthew  had  a  little  party  in 
honor  of  his  birthday.  Ten  or  twelve 
children  came.  It  was  rather  a  nui- 
sance, particularly  as  some  of  them  re- 
fused our  lemonade  and  cakes,  owing  to 
this  hygienic  craze,  and  ate  pure-food 
tarts  and  health  bonbons  their  mothers 
had  sent  with  them;  and  when  their 
little  packages  got  mixed  up,  it  made  as 
much  trouble  as  though  we  had  been  in 
India,  feeding  different  castes.  I  started 
to  simplify  things  by  ordering  every 
child  present  to  eat  exactly  what  I  said. 
The  little  beasts!  daring  to  sniff  at 
cakes  that  I'd  have  gobbled  by  the 
dozen  if  I'd  been  a  boy  again  or  free  of 
my  dyspepsia.  But  Hattie,  my  wife, 
must  needs  put  in  her  oar  when  she 
heard  them  crying,  and  insist  on  doing 


things  her  own  way.  Very  dogmatic 
she  was,  too — wouldn't  even  let  me 
argue  with  her. 

"Don't  interfere,  please,  Niblo,  on 
Matthew's  birthday,"  she  said.  "  You're 
spoiling  the  party." 

I  stated  that  I  had  no  wish  to  spoil 
the  party,  and  was  marching  out  of  the 
room  when  I  met  Talbot.  He  seemed 
in  high  spirits.  I  never  care  to  be  with 
fellows  who  are  in  high  spirits;  they 
have  a  feverish  way  of  slapping  one  on 
the  back  and  laughing  at  anything  or 
nothing,  as  though  they  were  unbal- 
anced. I  stood  with  my  back  close  to 
the  wall  and  merely  nodded  to  Talbot. 

Matthew's  loud  welcome  made  up, 
however,  for  my  coolness.  "Teapot's 
come,  mother!"  he  called.  "Now  he'll 
perform,  won't  he!" 


PERFORMING  FOR  MATTHEW 


77 


Talbot  looked 
rather  blankly  at  the 
assemblage. 

"You  didn't  tell  me 
there  was  a  party, 
Niblo/'  he  said. 

"Stage    fright?"  I 
asked,  amusedly. 

"Oh,"  he  answered, 
"I  sha'n't  mind  if  you 
don't.  Only  we'll  have 
to  make  it  more  elab- 
orate now." 

"Who's  'we'?"  I 
said.  "Don't  count 
me  in  on  it." 

"Oh,  Teapot,"  said 
Hattie,  coming  up. 
"I'm  so  glad — you're 
just  in  time.  It  hasn't 
been  going  very  well. 
Can't  you  do  that  en- 
tertaining we  were 
speaking  of ?  It  might 
just  save  the  day." 

"I  came  prepared 
to,  Hattie;  but  Niblo 
declines  to  help." 

"Why,  Niblo!"  said 
Hattie.  "Do  you  wish 
to  spoil  the  party?" 

"  I  have  already 
stated    once,"    I  re- 
monstrated, "that  I  have  no  wish  what- 
ever to — " 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
breaking,  "it's  the  same  old  story.  You 
two  brothers  are  angry  at  each  other 
again — on  Matthew's  birthday.  I  was 
awake  at  six  this  morning.  I've  worked 
harder  than  anybody  knows  to  make  it 
a  success,  and  if  you  two  are  going  to 
quarrel  I  think  it's  a  pity." 

"What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do, 
Talbot?"  I  asked.  It  had  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  the  reasonable  thing 
to  ascertain  just  what  he  wanted  before 
refusing. 

"Let's  see,"  he  said.  "Is  there  a  long 
whip  in  the  house?" 

Hattie  dried  her  eyes  and  reminded 
me  there  was  a  whip  in  the  hall  closet. 
"Do  be  nice  and  get  it  for  us,"  she  said, 
"  I  mustn't  leave  the  children;"  and  back 
she  hurried  to  save  a  small  devil  of  a 
girl  who  seemed  to  be  choking  herself 
on  a  sanitary  doughnut. 


It  was  no  Concern  of  mine  if  Talbot  wished  to  make  himself  ridiculous 


I  started  to  get  the  whip. 

"And  a  high  hat,"  added  Talbot, 
"and  an  overcoat,  and —  Wait  a  minute, 
Niblo,  now  that  all  these  people  are 
here  I  must  do  this  up  brown.  Ah,  I 
have  it! — an  apron,  and  that  old  green 
shawl  of  Hattie's  and  a  boy's  cap  and 
sweater." 

My  brother  Talbot  is  a  very  erratic 
sort  of  chap — I  am  never  surprised 
much  at  anything  he  does.  I  checked 
off  his  items  on  my  fingers. 


?"  I 


m- 


"What  kind  of  an  apron 
quired. 

He  said  any  kind  would  serve. 

Going  through  the  wardrobe  drawers, 
I  found  a  short  pink  apron — if  it  was  an 
apron  —  with  lace  shoulder-straps.  I 
took  it  along.  It  was  no  concern  of 
mine,  I  felt,  if  Talbot  wished  to  make 
himself  ridiculous.  Returning  with  this 
and  the  other  articles,  however,  I  passed 
old  General  Northman  in  the  hall, 
bringing  in  his  two  grandsons  —  well- 


3 1  r  citrJi-n  «ar 


"NOW,  FORWARD  MY  HORSE  !     RlDE.  DAUGHTER!     I  HE  ClRCOOS.  !T  BEGIN!" 


bred,  quiet  children — and  the  grave 
glance  he  gave  me  made  me  feel  that 
that  pink  apron  had  put  me  in  a  false 
position-  I  shall  learn  some  day,  I 
hope,  that  it's  just  like  touching  pitch 
to  become  involved  in  any  scheme  of 
Talbot's. 

The  children  were  seated  in  two  semi- 
circular rows  as  I  re-entered.  Behind 
them  I  noticed  Mrs.  Craven,  whose 
sister  I  used  to  know  once,  before  she 
went  to  China;  Mrs.  Levellier;  Miss 
Bostwick  and  her  brother;  and  one  or 
two  others.  Talbot  was  posturing  be- 
fore them  with  a  large  doll  that  he  had 
just  borrowed,  apparently,  from  the  au- 
dience. 

"This  entertainment  is  to  be  a  play, 
children,"  he  said,  "  about  a  motherless 
child  whose  father  was  a  ringmaster  and 
who  brought  her  up  very  tenderly  in  the 
circus;  only  she  got  hurt  one  day,  and 
some  ladies  in  the  audience  took  her 
away  to  cure  her,  and  she  was  lost  to 


him  for  years.  Now,  Niblo,  if  you  have 
the  things  there,  I'll  begin." 

I  put  down  the  things  and  went  over 
to  shake  hands  with  the  new  arrivals. 

"Act  One,"  Talbot  announced.  "This 
is  at  the  circus,  children."  The  children 
crowed.  He  took  the  doll  in  one  hand, 
the  whip  in  the  other,  and  my  high  hat — 
which  was  too  small  for  him — he  perched 
on  his  head.  "I  am  the  ringmaster," 
he  explained,  and  began  at  once  telling 
the  children  how  much  he  and  the  doll 
(his  daughter)  loved  circus  life. 

"But  see!"  he  cried,  speaking,  for  rea- 
sons of  his  own,  with  a  Franco-German 
accent.  "Here  comes  zat  great  horse! 
La,  la,  my  child,  now  we  have  the  ride,  is 
it  not?  Come,  horsey,  horsey!  Put  on 
the  overcoat,  Niblo;  you're  the  horse." 

I  had  started  to  take  a  chair,  near  Mr. 
Craven,  when  Talbot  addressed  me. 
"Nonsense,"  I  said  to  him.  Nothing 
was  further  from  my  intentions  than  to 
assist  in  his  clowning. 


PERFORMING  FOR  MATTHEW 


79 


I  sat  down,  folded  my  arms,  and 
smiled  at  the  children.  There  were  no 
answering  smiles,  I  noticed.  Talbot 
laid  down  the  doll.  "I'd  do  it  alone  if 
I  could,  I  assure  you,  children,"  he  said; 
"but  as  that  is  impossible,  the  play 
can't  be  given  at  all." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  one  child 
began  crying. 

The  next  few  moments  I  do  not  clearly 
remember.    Hattie  had  been  out  on  the 
piazza  with  two  or  three  of  the  mothers 
who  had  just  arrived.    She  and  they 
now  entered  to  find  out  what  was  wrong. 
The  children  began  telling  them,  and 
bawling,  and  suddenly  everybody  seemed 
to  turn  on  me.    I  have  a  recollection  of 
arguing  astoundedly  with  them,  and 
being  told   I  was  ruining  Matthew's 
birthday,  and  hearing  a  great  confusion 
of  talking  and  crying,  and  Hattie  taking 
sides  against  me,  as  usual;  and  finally  I 
found  myself  putting  on  the  overcoat,  like 
a  man  in  a  nightmare,  and  standing  dog- 
gedly  before  Talbot 
while  he  said:  "Down, 
horsey!   down!  You 
must  not  rear,  pretty 
one.     Down,   so  my 
daughter  can  mount." 

I  got  down  on  my 
hands  and  knees.  He 
placed  the  doll  on  my 
back  and  patted  my 
head.  I  put  up  my 
hand  to  stop  him. 
"That's  right,  hold 
her  on,"  he  whispered. 
"Now,  forward,  my 
horse!  Ride,  daughter! 
The  circoos,  it  begin!" 

In  great  annoyance 
I  crept  around  the 
ring,  as  well  as  I  could 
on  my  one  free  hand 
and  my  knees,  Tal- 
bot loudly  imitating  a 
band  and  cracking  his 
whip.  "Faster!  fast- 
er," he  begged.  I  said 
I  couldn't.  "Ah,  la- 
dies and  gentlemen," 
he  shouted,  turning  to 
the  audience,  "you 
most  help  me  make 
zis  grand  gentil  horse 
go  swift.  Faster!  fast- 


er!" They  all  yelled  "Faster!"  in 
chorus,  except,  I  hope,  General  North- 
man. I  ground  my  teeth  and  exchanged 
my  creeping  progress  for  a  sort  of  leaping 
kangaroo  gait,  with  one  hand  paddling 
along  in  front  on  the  carpet.  Talbot 
danced  about,  whipping  my  overcoat 
tails.  I  don't  know  yet  why  an  over- 
coat makes  a  man  a  horse. 

"Sing,  daughter!"  I  heard  him  call. 
"Always  when  you  are  happy,  do  you 
not  sing?   Come,  Niblo,  sing  for  her." 

I  stopped  in  my  tracks. 

"Now  see  here,"  I  protested,  sitting 
up,  "I  am  striving  to  be  a  reasonable 
man,  and  a  patient  one,  but  I  can't  sing 
and  gallop."  ("And  hold  a  doll  on  my 
back  and  wear  a  hot  overcoat  too,"  I 
might  have  added.) 

Talbot  said,  "Why  not?"  and  ex- 
plained that  it  was  necessary.  It  was 
a  very  important  part  of  the  plot.  I 
asked  why  he  couldn't  do  it,  then.  He 
said  he  wished  to  be  reasonable  as  much 


"  Her  Song  !  At  last  have  I  found  again  my  Daughter  !' 


80 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


(7 


In  order  to  have  every  Chair  stand  at  a  certain  Angle,  a 
Woman  will  toil  until  unfit  for  human  Companionship 


as  anybody,  but  he  was  already  being 
the  doll's  father  and  a  large  brass-band. 
In  short,  between  him  and  the  women, 
I  was  compelled  to  acquiesce. 

"Come  on  now,  warble,"  said  Talbot. 

The  song  I  first  thought  of  was 
"Meet  Me  by  Moonlight  Alone,"  which 
Mrs.  Craven's  sister  had  taught  me 
before  my  marriage. 

"I  can't  think  of  anything  at  the 
moment,"  I  said. 

"You  might  give  us  'Who's  for  the 
Inn?"'  suggested  Talbot. 

"Really,  Teapot,"  Hattie  objected, 
"how  could  'Who's  for  the  Inn'  be  a 
small  girl's  song?  Let  Niblo  sing  some- 
thing like  'The  Little  White  Ba-a.'" 

I  couldn't  say  I  didn't  know  that 
song,  unfortunately,  because  Matthew 
has  been  sung  to  sleep  with  it  ever  since 
he  was  born.  I  was  therefore  obliged 
to  resume  my  galloping,  indignantly 
gasping  out  "The  Little  White  Ba-a." 

Rounding  the  turn  by  the  sofa,  the  doll 
fell  off. 

"My  daughter!"  screamed  Talbot. 
"Ah,  pestilent  beast,  'ave  you  keeled 
her?"  The  doll's  owner  scrambled  for- 
ward.   "See,  see,  see!"  he  continued; 


"very  kind  ladies  from 
audience  will  save  my 
child.  They  will  cure 
her  in  a  lovely  hospital 
for  her  father.  Ladies, 
behold,  I  bow  to  you. 
End  of  Act  One."" 

I  took  off  the  over- 
coat, exhausted. 

"How  many  acts 
are  there?"  the  audi- 
ence began  to  call, 
jigging  up  and  down 
in  their  chairs.  For 
sheer,  malignant 
hard-heartedness, 
there's  nobody  like 
children. 

"Three,"  said  the 
ringmaster.  "Act 
Two,  the  Road  of 
Sighs." 

The  sighs  in  this  act 
were  furnished,  with 
much  gusto,  by  Tal- 
bot, who  had  lost 
track  of  his  daughter, 
he  said,  and  was 
searching  for  her  everywhere.  I  never 
saw  a  man  enjoy  himself  more.  My 
own  part  I  needn't  particularly  de- 
scribe. Much  against  my  will  I  played 
the  roles  of,  first,  a  dying  farmer  (wear- 
ing the  overcoat  again,  turned  inside 
out);  second,  a  convict  (in  the  boy's  cap 
and  a  sweater);  and  third,  an  ignorant 
Swede — repeatedly  assuring  Talbot  in 
each  of  these  roles  that  I  had  neither 
seen  nor  heard  of  his  missing  daugh- 
ter. Finally  he  consulted  a  soothsay- 
er, myself,  (in  the  green  shawl),  and 
was  told  to  "follow  her  song."  I  then 
hoarsely  sang  "The  Little  White  Ba-a" 
once  more,  while  Talbot  wept  at  this 
miraculous  (he  said)  repetition  of  his 
lost  child's  favorite  air. 

In  Act  Three,  Talbot  had  given  up  his 
wandering  and  become  head  fiddler  in 
an  orchestra.  This  was  because  his  lost 
daughter,  now  grown  to  womanhood, 
was  rumored  to  have  become  a  prima 
donna,  and  he  hoped  to  meet  her  some 
day  in  musical  circles.  He  was  old  and 
broken,  and  very  talkative,  I  thought; 
and  he  played  a  violin,  hideously;  and 
then,  as  you  have  guessed,  I  had  to 
appear  as  a  prima  donna — in  my  shirt- 


UNDERSTANDING 


81 


sleeves,  decked  out  in  that  cursed  pink 
apron  with  lace  shoulder-straps;  and 
stand  there  like  an  ass  before  all  those 
people,  and  sing  until  Talbot  cried, 
"Her  song!  Her  song!  At  last  have  I 
found  once  more  again  my  daughter!" 
and  hugged  me  passionately,  adding 
over  my  shoulder  to  the  audience: 
"Curtain.    That's  the  end." 

Seated  in  my  library,  a  little  later,  I 
waited  for  Hattie  to  finish  her  good-byes 
to  the  children  and  appear  before  me. 
She  could  hardly  have  failed,  I  felt,  to 
appreciate  the  sacrifices  I  had  made;  and 
while  she  was  in  a  grateful  state  of  mind 
I  wished  to  come  to  an  understanding 
with  her  and  put  her  on  her  guard 
against  being  so  influenced  by  Talbot. 

The  guests  departed.  The  sound  of 
voices  ceased.  There  followed  the  sound 
of  chairs  being  put  back  in  their  places. 
I  have  learned  that  that  is  one  of  the 
sacred  duties  of  women.  In  order  to 
have  every  chair  stand  at  a  certain 


angle,  a  woman  will  toil  until  unfit  for 
human  companionship. 

"Niblo,"  I  heard  H  attie  calling, 
"wouldn't  you  like  a  nice  little  dinner 
at  your  club  to-night?" 

I  went  to  the  library  door  and  replied 
that  I  would  not. 

I  am  a  man  of  domestic  tastes;  I  like 
my  home;  and  I  don't  pay  a  constant 
stream  of  grocery  and  butcher  bills  for 
the  sake  of  dining  out. 

"Wasn't  Teapot  splendid?"  Hattie 
went  on.  "I  had  no  idea  he  could  act 
so  well;  everybody  spoke  of  it.  We'll 
have  to  have  him  perform  for  us  again." 

"Hereafter,"  I  said,  "when  there's 
any  performing  to  be  done,  Matthew 
will  do  it." 

"Oh,  but  don't  say  that,  Niblo,"  she 
urged.  "I  have  begun  to  feel  lately 
that  it's  not  especially  good  for  the  boy — 
and  it's  tiresome  for  us." 

I  quietly  took  my  hat  and  went  to  the 
club. 


Understanding 

BY  ANNA  ALICE  CHAPIN 

WHEN  we  are  very  young,  and  see  the  bird 
That  craved  the  light  fall  hurt  among  the  stones. 
And  the  young  moth  that  late  to  life  has  stirred 
Die  in  the  storm  that  through  our  garden  moans: 
As  though  in  contemplation  of  some  blunder — 
We  wonder. 

When  we  are  older,  and  have  had  some  friend 
Who.  we  are  told,  has  suffered  and  has  lost; 
When  we  have  seen  a  little  of  the  trend 

Of  Life,  and  watched  the  failures  being  tossed 
Into  the  past,  the  while  Fate  croons  her  ditty: 
Although  we  yet  see  little  and  know  less — 
We  guess. 

And  later,  when  the  hours  are  grown  to  years, 

And  our  own  wings  have  failed  us  near  the  light; 
And  when  our  cheeks  have  learned  the  touch  of  tears, 
And  our  tired  hearts  find  comfort  in  the  night: 
Taught  by  the  Life  that  leads  us  sure  and  slow— 
We  know. 


The  Unchanging  Girl 


BY  EDWARD  S.  MARTIN 


E  keep  hearing  that  the 
world  has  changed  so 
much;  is  changing  so 
fast;  and  especially  for 
girls.  People  wonder 
whether  anywhere  there 
are  back-waters  where 
children  are  being  brought  up  as 
they  used  to  be.  The  suggestion  is 
abroad  —  very  disquieting  to  a  good 
many  people  —  that  everything  in  the 
world,  including  the  institutions  and 
the  human  beings,  is  about  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  has  been,  and  that 
the  change  is  now  in  full  course  and  going 
fast.  Old-fashioned  people  are  getting 
rattled,  and  begin  to  inspect  one  another, 
with  the  kind  of  attention  that  one  pays 
to  menagerie  animals,  as  examples  of  a 
species  about  to  become  extinct. 

Still,  for  the  moment,  it  is  permitted 
to  deprecate  these  anxieties.  Things  do 
move,  to  be  sure,  but  there  are  still 
considerations  that  may  keep  up  hope  in 
folks  who  have  agreeable  memories  of 
the  world  as  it  lately  was,  and  prefer 
that  it  should  not  do  a  lightning  change 
into  a  brand-new  place  peopled  with 
complete  strangers.  We  hear  of  the 
great  change  in  children:  how  differ- 
ently nowadays  they  are  taught,  clothed, 
trained,  by  methods  unfamiliar  to  most 
of  their  elders,  to  ends  that  seem  hypo- 
thetical and  untried.  And  especially  the 
girls.  We  are  constantly  invited  to  pre- 
dict what  the  girls  are  going  to  be  and 
do  and  what  is  going  to  happen  to  the 
world  in  consequence.  The  old-fashioned 
girls  got  married  and — well — here  we 
are!  But  these  new-fashioned  girls  that 
are  just  about  to  be  —  can  our  old- 
fashioned  world  be  altered  sufficiently  to 
suit  them?  Can  the  venerable  institu- 
tion of  marriage  have  enough  tucks  let 
out  in  it  to  be  a  loose  enough  garment 
for  their  audacious  requirements?  Can 
man  be  trained  to  be  wise  enough  or 
of  a  sufficient  submissiveness  for  them 
to  marry?  And  when  they  are  done, 
will  wary  young  men  dare  to  love  them? 


Of  course,  if  the  girls  are  going  to  be 
different  it's  a  serious  thing,  unless  the 
boys  and  all  the  rest  of  creation  are 
nicely  adjusted  to  the  change  in  them. 
Either  a  sufficient  proportion  of  the  girls 
must  match  the  rest  of  the  terrestrial 
institution,  or  the  institution  must 
match  the  girls.  Otherwise  things  can't 
go  on. 

I  understand  Mr.  Cram,  who  built 
that  handsome  new  church  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  says  in  his  book  on  the  ruined 
abbeys  of  Great  Britain  that  it  was  the 
monks  who  lived  in  those  abbeys  who 
really  put  the  foundation  under  England 
and  gave  her  such  a  start  in  the  right 
course  that  she  has  not  entirely  left  it 
yet.  And  the  monks  were  celibates. 
Perhaps  out  of  the  contemporary  fer- 
ment we  shall  have  a  crop  of  celibates, 
and  especially  of  free  and  independent 
single  ladies,  who  shall  do  a  great  work 
for  our  world  and  mightily  improve  it. 
That  is  a  conceivable  consequence  of  the 
extinction  of  old-fashioned  children,  and 
of  girls  becoming  different,  and  of  course 
nobody  who  looks  about  will  disparage 
the  powers  of  celibate  ladies  in  the  im- 
provement of  mankind. 

Such  as  we  are,  however,  and  with  all 
our  prejudices  against  the  notion  that 
we  are  detrimental  products  of  civiliza- 
tion, we  lean  toward  the  older-fashioned 
women  to  whom  we  owe  our  being,  and 
hope,  half  piously  and  half  in  self-exten- 
uation, that  the  likeness  of  them  is  not 
about  to  pass  from  earth.  To  back  that 
hope  let  us  seek  such  reassurances  as 
there  may  be.  And  there  are  some.  It 
looks  on  the  surface  as  though  old- 
fashioned  children  had  followed  the 
pterodactyls  and  dinosauruses  out  of  life 
in  the  direction  of  geology,  but  surface 
appearances  often  fool  us.  Childhood  is 
conservative.  It  has  back  of  it  endless 
generations  of  mankind,  and  processes  of 
development  akin  to  the  processes  by 
which  the  egg  develops  into  the  living 
creature.  Such  processes  are  cousins  to 
instinct,  and  are  stubborn  affairs  that  do 


Drawn  by  Anna  Whelan  Belts  Engraved  by  Frank  E.  Pettit 

THE   GOSSIP   OF   THE  NEIGHBORHOOD 

Vol.  CXXVIII.  —  No.  763.-11 


84 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


not  readily  yield  to  fashion  or  new  con- 
ditions of  life.  A  new  baby  now  is  no  wise 
different  from  what  new  babies  have 
been  for  time  immemorial.  The  younger 
children  are,  the  more  likeness  we  find  in 
them  to  what  children  were.  And  per- 
haps, so  far  as  concerns  young  children, 


The  gracious  Diversions  of  the  Virginia  Reel 


the  changes  in  raising  are  more  super- 
ficial than  we  are  apt  to  think.  Mother 
Goose  is  still  a  mighty  popular  author. 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  Man  Friday,  Sind- 
bad  and  Morgiana  and  Aladdin  and  their 
fellows,  and  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  and  all 
the  fairies,  and  a  lot  of  other  old  famil- 
iars keep  ever  moving  into  the  new  cer- 
ebral apartments  of  the  rising  generation. 
And  the  Bible,  for  all  that  people  say  the 
young  don't  know  it,  is  still  the  best 
seller  and  more  read  than  any  other 
book. 

As  for  games,  they  come  and  go  and 
change,  but  the  good  ones  have  great 


vitality.  I  doubt  if  cat's-cradle  has  dis- 
appeared or  ever  will.  Battledore  and 
shuttlecock  has  probably  bowed  grace- 
fully to  lawn-tennis  and  awaits  revival 
on  a  back  seat,  but  in  tennis  the  essen- 
tials of  it  are  preserved.  There  are  al- 
ways novelties  in  the  toy-shops,  but  the 
old  stand-by's,  the 
hoops  and  balls  and 
marbles  and  skipping- 
ropes  and  blocks  and 
dolls,  are  always  there 
in  force. 

And  the  old-time  in- 
terest in  appearance 
continues  without  per- 
ceptible abatement. 
No  less  attention  than 
formerly  is  paid  to  the 
hair  of  little  girls,  and 
no  less  pains  taken 
to  make  them  'Took 
nice."  Girls  don't 
make  samplers  any 
more,  but  they  still 
crochet  and  still  knit 
and  embroider.  I 
know  not  whether  lit- 
tle boys  still  occupy 
themselves  sometimes 
with  a  cork  with  a  hole 
through  it,  and  four 
pins  stuck  in  the  up- 
per rim,  and  contrive 
with  that  once  famil- 
iar apparatus  to  weave 
colored  worsteds  into  a 
wonderful  tail  which, 
curled  up  flat  and  with 
due  stitches,  made  a 
lamp-mat.  That  was 
a  good  trick.  I  doubt 
if  it  is  taught  in  the  public  schools,  but 
a  little  modern  boy  looking  for  entertain- 
ment on  a  rainy  afternoon  or  a  win- 
ter evening  would  probably  take  kindly 
to  it. 

Pantalets  are  gone,  and  a  good  rid- 
dance, and  delightful  bare  brown  legs  of 
young  children  have  emerged  from  them. 
Not  even  in  the  remotest  back-water  is 
there  any  longer  a  crinoline,  which  sur- 
vives only  on  the  stage  in  middle-of-the- 
nineteenth-century  dramas.  A  bride, 
though,  is  still  a  bride,  and  glad  to  wear 
her  grandmother's  wedding  veil,  if  there 
is  one,  and,  though  crinoline  has  passed 


THE  UNCHANGING  GIRL 


85 


away,  skirts  have  not  quite  gone 
yet,  but  are  like  the  Sibyl's  books 
in  that  diminution  in  quantity  does 
not  seem  to  make  them  cheaper  or 
less  interesting,  or  less  necessary 
to  provide  and  consider.  There  is 
no  perceptible  abatement  yet  in 
the  interest  of  mothers  in  dressing 
their  children.  Clothes  are  just 
as  important  as  they  ever  were; 
rather  better  than  they  used  to  be 
and  quite  as  pretty,  and,  on  the 
whole,  more  sensible;  though  as  to 
sense,  the  fashions  change  and 
often  seem  to  leave  it  ou 

Babies,  then,  being  just  the  same 
as  formerly,  except  that  the  great 
advance  in  medicine,  surgery,  sani- 
tation, and  such  matters  has  im- 
proved their  chances  of  growing  up, 
and  young  children  now  being  not 
so  different  as  might  be  supposed 
from  what  young  children  used  to 
be,  one  naturally  wonders  at  what 
age  the  great  changes  in  life  (which 
are  understood  to  be  proceeding  in 
this  generation)  begin  to  touch  the 
girls  and  make  them  different.  I 
inquired  about  that  of  an  expert 
man  who  has  to  do  with  the  train- 
ing of  the  young,  and  always  has  a 
lot  of  them  convenient  for  ob- 
servation during  their  pupilage. 
"When,"  said  I,  "do  the  modern 
girls  begin  to  feel  the  influence  of 
their  times  and  begin  to  be  different 
from  their  grandmothers  at  their  age?" 


I 


Battledore  and  Shuttlecock 


He  deliberated.    "At  about  forty." 
"Then  you  don't  see  any  change  in 


Cat's-cradle  will  never  disappear 


86 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


young  girls  and  young  women?  You've 
known  them  by  the  hundred,  intimately 
and  over  long  periods  of  time,  studied 
them  more  than  anything  else  for  nearly 
half  a  lifetime,  and  you  say  the  new 
girls  are  just  the  same  as  the  old?" 
"Yes;  just  the  same.    The  fashions 


The  eternal  Feminine 


change,  but  the  girls  don't.  Sports  have 
changed  a  little;  studies  have  changed; 
but  the  girls  haven't.  They  are  still  the 
same  girls,  and  do  things  very  much  as 
they  always  did,  albeit  they  do  different 
things  now  from  what  their  grand- 
mothers did.  Their  grandmothers,  also, 
in  their  day  did  different  things  from 
what  their  grandmothers  did.  The  con- 
ditions of  life  change;  employments 
change;  education  follows  new  fashions; 
new  opportunities  offer,  old  ones  dwindle 
in  importance;  the  girls  as  they  come 
along  take  up  the  newer  fashions  in  all 
things.  That  makes  them  look  different, 
and  people  think  they  are  changed,  and 
are  going  to  change  still  more,  and  that 
there  is  going  to  be  the  New  Woman  who 


is  to  be  something  that  woman  never 
was  before.  But  that's  a  mistake.  The 
girls  don't  change.  They  are  just  the 
same  they  always  were,  and  they  will 
keep  on  being  so." 

"And  the  New  Woman?" 
"Why,  bless  you!  the  New  Woman  is 
just  the  old  woman 
in  a  new  bonnet,  ad- 
justed more  or  less 
to  enormous  changes 
in  the  physical  and 
mental  apparatus  of 
j  m  the  world,  learned  in 

new   branches,  a 
reader  of  newspapers 
and  many  books  full 
of   undigested  sug- 
gestion, unedifying 
quotation,  and  very 
doubtful  assertion. 
She  used  to  ride  on 
a  pillion;    now  she 
rides  in  a  motor-car, 
and  often  drives  it 
herself.    Of  course 
she  goes  faster  than 
she  did.    So  does  all 
the  world.  She  keeps 
her  place  in  an  ad- 
vancing line — that's 
all.    Her  relation  to 
life  has  not  changed, 
but  it  would  have 
changed   unless  she 
had  kept  up  with  the 
times.    We  men  are 
not  the  duplicates  of 
our  grandfathers. 
Where  would  we  be,  where  find  com- 
panions,  if  our  contemporary  women 
were  just  their  grandmothers  over  again  r 
They  are  their  grandmothers  modern- 
ized, as  they  should  be,  as  they  must 
be;  and  so  fitted  to  sustain  the  same 
relations  to  life  in  this  century  as  their 
grandmothers  did  to  the  last. 

"  Don't  worry  about  the  New  Woman. 
Of  course  there  are  individual  women 
now,  as  there  always  have  been,  who 
have  strong  impulses  and  the  strength  to 
follow  them,  and  are  pioneers  for  good 
or  bad,  and  attain  to  starry  crowns  or 
come  tremendous  croppers.  But  the 
average,  the  standard,  woman  is  not  new 
and  is  not  going  to  be.  She  is  the  same 
woman  as  heretofore,  a  conservative 


Drawn  by  Anna  Whelan  Belts  Engraved  by  Nelson  Demarest 

WEAVING    COLORED    WORSTEDS    INTO    A   WONDERFUL  TAIL 


Watching  for  the  Postman 


force  like  church  or  constitution  or  any- 
thing that  has  come  down  from  old 
times,  but  she  moves  with  the  procession 
as  she  ought  to." 

I  give  you  the  impressions  of  this  ob- 
server for  what  they  are  worth.  Per- 
haps on  another  day  they  would  have 
been  different  impressions.  I  find  that 
my  own  are  a  good  deal  affected  by  the 
season  and  the  weather,  and  on  good 
days  I  am  sure  the  girls  will  stay  by  us, 
and  on  bad  ones  I  am  apprehensive  that 
they  will  bolt.  No  doubt  they  also  have 
different  moods  about  it,  and  at  times 
give  up  mankind  entirely,  and  are  all  for 
the  independent  life,  and  again  relent 
and  feel  that  there  are  better  ways  to 
warm  cold  hands  than  to  sit  on  them. 
In  all  these  matters  that  concern  human 
relations  we  have  to  allow  for  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  feelings,  and  I  think  that 
just  now  we  should  also  allow  for  the 
enormous  contemporary  development  of 
the  apparatus  of  vociferation.  Time 
was  when  the  still,  small  voice  had  a 
say.  Now  it  is  apt  to  be  drowned  out 
by  the  vast  din  of  words  in  type.  Think 


of  the  steady  clatter  of  the  printing- 
presses. —  thousands  of  them  —  printing 
from  whirling  rolls  of  paper,  and  not,  as 
formerly,  on  one  sheet  at  a  time!  Think 
of  the  presses  and  of  the  minds  that  feed 
them;  what  sort  of  minds  they  are — how 
wise,  how  far  furnished  with  truths  to 
impart,  how  far  "speeded  up"  because 
the  rollers  are  turning  and  must  be  fed! 
How  far  do  modern  newspapers  reflect 
modern  life,  and  how  far  are  our  impres- 
sions of  modern  life  merely  the  reflec- 
tions of  modern  newspapers?  I  could 
almost  believe  that  the  whole  contem- 
porary unrest  of  women  is  an  extrava- 
ganza put  out  on  the  great  stage  of  the 
world  by  newspapers  and  magazines, 
and  that  presently  the  curtain  will 
drop  on  it  and  we  shall  forget  that 
it  ever  was.  I  could  almost  believe 
that,  but  not  quite;  but  it  is  true  enough 
that,  thanks  to  cheap  paper,  rotary 
presses,  and  cheap  postage,  shrill  voices 
carry  vastly  farther  than  they  did,  and 
individual  disturbance  is  able  to  assume 
the  tones  of  a  convulsion  of  nature. 
Probably  the  old-fashioned  child,  if 


KM^,,;^    Is 

Drawn  by  Anna  Whelan  Beits  Engraved  by  F.  A.  Pettit 


A    BLUSTERY    DAY    FOR  CRINOLINES 


Drawn  by  Anna  Whelan  Belts  Engraved  by  F.  A.  Pettit 


GRANDMOTHER'S    WEDDING  VEIL 


THE  UNCHANGING  GIRL 


91 


we  allowed  her  a  few  hours  of  prepara- 
tion in  a  department  store,  would  find 
herself  less  a  stranger  in  our  contempo- 
rary world  than  we  think.  When  I 
started  out  of  my  own  haughty  front 
door  this  very  afternoon  two  of  the  three 
nine-year-old  young  ladies  who  were  oc- 
cupying my  proud  brown  -  stone  door- 
step arose  to  let  me  pass.  The  third 
also  started  to  rise,  but  I  restrained  her. 
She  had  a  baby  in  her  lap,  as  did  one  of 
the  others.  None  of  them  resides  with 
me.  I  think  they  reside  hard  by  on 
Third  Avenue,  but  they  find  my  front 
steps  more  commodious  than  their  own, 
and  the  air  of  our  block  better  for  their 
babies.  They  and  their  sisters  come 
daily,  after  school  -  hours,  when  the 
weather  is  propitious,  and  it  is  a  relief 
and  a  protection  to  have  them,  because 
while  they  are  there  the  boys,  who  are 
much  more  destructive,  cannot  occupy 
our  steps.  They  seem  entirely  old- 
fashioned.  Maybe  it  is  because  they  do 
not  yet  read  the  papers  very  much. 
Some  of  them  are  even  polite  and  seem  to 
attend  when  I  beg  them  not  to  scatter 
apple-skins  on  our  steps;  and  one  bright- 
eyed  taller  girl,  with  whom  yesterday  I 
discussed  the  prevailing  habit  of  keeping 
game-scores  on  our  basement  wall  in 
colored  chalks,  was  very  encouraging  in 
her  responsiveness. 

These  children  are  old-fashioned  un- 
der difficulties,  for  they  have  no  really 
suitable  place  to  play  (though  there 
are  worse  playgrounds  than  an  asphalt 
pavement)  and  no  animals  except  ba- 
bies to  play  with.  We  should  all  be 
better,  I  think,  and  more  contented  if 
we  associated  more  with  animals.  They 
are  perfectly  old-fashioned;  they  do  not 
read  the  newspapers  and  they  do  not 
want  to  vote.  They  have  other  delight- 
ful virtues  which  Walt  Whitman  has 
enumerated.  They  think  so  much  bet- 
ter of  us  than  we  are  that  it  is  an  en- 
couragement. They  give  so  much  to  us 
in  proportion  to  what  they  get  that  it 
shames  our  poor  generosities.  I  respect 
considerably  the  idea  that  God  made 
them  to  be,  not  exactly  an  example  to 
us,  but  a  suggestion. 

"  Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  de- 
mented with  the  mania  for  owning  things. 

"  Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over 
the  whole  earth." 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.— 12 


I  suppose  they  will  continue  to  live  in 
our  changing  world  in  spite  of  machin- 
ery, and  we  will  have  the  benefit  of  their 
society.  We  have  the  habit  of  eating 
some  of  them,  which  is  a  very  painful 
thought,  but  insures  their  continuance. 
Think  what  could  be  said  in  the  news- 
papers of  our  terrible  habit  of  killing 
and  eating  the  kind  and  seemly  animals, 
if  it  could  be  brought  into  politics  or  it 
paid  anybody  to  take  it  up.  Mr.  Ber- 
nard Shaw  disapproves  of  it,  I  believe, 
but  it  is  not  a  topic  on  which  as  yet  he 
has  enlarged  very  much.  Think  how 
easy  it  would  be  to  demonstrate  the 
machinations  of  the  wicked  Meat  Trust 
to  rivet  the  animal  diet  on  society,  just 
as  the  armament-makers  are  supposed 
to  machinate  to  keep  up  war!  But  since 
we  seem  to  be  carnivorous  we  keep  right 
on  eating  meat,  and  I  suppose  a  good 
many  of  our  other  habits  will  keep  right 
along  in  spite  of  enormous  ink-sheds  of 
remonstrance  and  expostulation,  because 
we  are  so  contrived. 

We  are  all  old-fashioned;  fashioned 
long,  long  ago,  with  inbred  needs  so  im- 
perative that  the  satisfaction  of  them  in 
some  degree  is  the  very  price  of  life. 
People  talk  and  write  about  men  and 
women  as  though  they  were  so  much 
putty,  that  could  be  pinched  into  any 
new  shape  that  was  promised  in  a  suc- 
cessful platform"  and  voted  by  a  re- 
form legislature. 

Not  much! 

Men  and  women  were  not  made  by 
hands  nor  made  of  putty.  They  are 
very  tough,  old-fashioned  products,  who 
have  in  them  what  was  put  there  and 
must  work  it  out  according  to  laws 
which  it  is  their  business  to  discover. 
They  cannot  be  repealed,  those  laws; 
they  cannot  be  evaded;  there  is  no  es- 
cape from  them;  no  recall  of  them  by 
ever  so  large  a  vote;  nothing  to  do  but 
to  discover  and  obey  them. 

And  those  great  laws  of  life  are  our 
final  defense  against  all  ill-considered 
novelties.  The  novelties  may  make  an 
immense  din;  they  may  cause  a  vast 
deal  of  temporary  trouble,  and  "  tempo- 
rary "  may  be  a  word  centuries  long  in 
the  great  affairs  of  human  life.  But  only 
as  novelties  are  truer  to  the  great  laws 
than  the  measures  and  customs  they 
supplant  can  they  prosper  and  endure. 


92 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Innovators  can  never  upset  the  world. 
They  did  not  make  it.  They  can  make 
a  mess  of  things  for  a  time;  they  can 
contribute  to  ends  which  they  could  not 
imagine,  but  in  the  long  run  the  Great 
Mind  has  its  way,  and  the  lesser  ones 
come  to  blight  or  honor  according  as 
they  go  that  way  or  not. 

Does  it  sound  procrustean,  this  idea 
of  mankind  turned  loose  on  the  earth 
inevitably  subject  to  immutable  laws 
which  it  only  partially  comprehends? 
Does  it  seem  like  a  story  of  rats  in  a  trap  ? 
Perhaps  so  to  the  desperate  and  the 
blind  in  spirit.  But  as  one  comes  to 
better  knowledge  of  the  great  laws  of 
life  his  conception  of  them  changes,  and 
he  sees  them  more  and  more,  not  as 
cruel  restraints,  but  as  defenses  of  the 
glorious  liberties  of  men,  by  obedience 
to  which,  and  not  otherwise,  we  may 
climb  to  all  the  heights  there  are;  heights 
far  beyond  our  present  ken,  and  where 
as  yet  no  human  footprints  seem  to  lead. 

I  suppose  that  is  why  the  minds  of 
men  who  have  got  what  they  would  of 
the  material  things,  and  tried  most  of 
the  ordinary  experiments  in  the  pursuit 
of  joy,  turn  so  often  in  the  end  to  knowl- 
edge as  the  thing  above  all  others  to  be 
desired,  and  the  search  for  which  is  most 
useful  to  promote. 

There  are  two  great  branches  of 
knowledge:  that  which  works  to  make 
the  earth  a  fit  abode  for  man,  and  that 
which  works  to  make  man  fit  to  live  in 
his  abode.  In  both  of  them  current 
progress  seems  amazingly  rapid,  and  the 
progress  in  one  helps  progress  in  the  other. 
But  at  any  given  time  progress  in  one 
branch  may  outrun  the  record  in  the  oth- 
er, and  things  for  a  time  may  go  lopsided 
in  consequence.  The  case  just  now  seems 
to  be  the  one  where  material  development 
has  outrun  spiritual  and  political  devel- 
opment, and  there  is  a  scramble  to  bring 
the  inhabitants  of  earth  abreast  of  their 


new  opportunities  and  to  fit  them  for  the 
fuller  life  and  broader  liberties  which 
lie  ready  to  all  hands  that  are  fit  to 
grasp  them.  In  that  scramble  there  are 
bound  to  be  many  false  starts,  much 
doubting  of  sound  principles,  much  ex- 
periment with  unsound  ones.  People 
pull  apart  who  ought  to  pull  together; 
people  pull  together  who  belong  apart. 
But  all  the  time  the  great  movement  is 
forward;  a  great  charge  of  humanity  up 
the  heights;  a  charge  in  which  many 
will  fall  and  many  be  trampled  on,  but 
in  which  great  numbers  and  great  cour- 
age and  devotion  press  on  to  attainment, 
and  surely  will  attain  much,  for  there  is 
no  great  check  in  sight. 

But  that  great,  motley  host  is  no 
army  of  new  recruits.  In  it  is  all  the 
best  human  substance  that  ever  has 
been;  all  the  courage  and  the  wisdom  of 
the  centuries;  the  courage  to  drive  on, 
the  wisdom  to  direct  and  often  to  re- 
strain. We  must  not  tremble  at  modern 
life,  for  it  is  the  same  old  life  we  have 
always  known  and  read  about,  but  trav- 
eling now  on  a  new  bit  of  road.  If  in 
its  current  development  the  powers  of 
advancement  seem  to  have  outrun  the 
powers  of  regulation,  that  is  only  a  pass- 
ing appearance,  for  they  are  geared  to- 
gether and  both  are  equally  a  part  of  our 
inheritance. 

And  as  the  special  need  of  the  time  is 
for  development  of  that  branch  of  knowl- 
edge which  works  to  make  men  fit  to 
live  on  earth,  the  great  activity  of  women 
is  the  more  readily  understandable,  for 
it  is  in  that  great  province  that  their 
more  important  domain  lies,  and  in  that 
that  their  more  important  abilities  are 
indispensable.  New  duties  come  to  them 
of  course;  new  thoughts  assail  and  new 
decisions  await  them,  but  no  new  fashion 
can  last  that  will  swerve  them  from 
womanhood  or  leave  the  world  un- 
mothered. 


Coronation 


BY  MARY  E.   WILKINS  FREEMAN 


^^S^^»IM  BENNET  had  never 
Mfr^^^^wiT  married.  Hehadpass- 
tW  T  TO  e^  middle  life,  and  pos- 
qfw  IS)  s  e  s  s  e  ^  considerable 

Wk  ^  £||  property.  Susan  Ad- 
^S^a^,sc^^S  kins  kept  house  for  him. 

She  was  a  widow,  and  a 
very  distant  relative.  Jim  had  two 
nieces,  his  brother's  daughters.  One, 
Alma  Beecher,  was  married;  the  oth- 
er, Amanda,  was  not.  The  nieces  had 
naively  grasping  views  concerning  their 
uncle  and  his  property.  They  stated 
freely  that  they  considered  him  unable 
to  care  for  it;  that  a  guardian  should  be 
appointed,  and  the  property  be  theirs  at 
once.  They  consulted  Lawyer  Thomas 
Hopkinson  with  regard  to  it;  they  dis- 
coursed at  length  upon  what  they  claimed 
to  be  an  idiosyncrasy  of  Jim's,  denoting 
failing  mental  powers.  "  He  keeps  a  per- 
fect slew  of  cats,  and  has  a  coal  fire  for 
them  in  the  woodshed  all  winter,"  said 
Amanda. 

"Why  in  thunder  shouldn't  he  keep  a 
fire  in  the  woodshed  if  he  wants  to?"  de- 
manded Hopkinson.  "I  know  of  no 
law  against  it.  And  there  isn't  a  law  in 
the  country  regulating  the  number  of 
cats  a  man  can  keep."  Thomas  Hop- 
kinson, who  was  an  old  friend  of  Jim's, 
gave  his  prominent  chin  an  upward  jerk 
as  he  sat  in  his  office  arm-chair  before 
his  clients. 

"There  is  something  besides  cats," 
said  Alma. 

"What?" 

^He  talks  to  himself." 

"What  in  creation  do  you  expect  the 
poor  man  to  do?  He  can't  talk  to 
Susan  Adkins  about  a  blessed  thing  ex- 
cept tidies  and  pincushions.  That 
woman  hasn't  a  thought  in  her  mind 
outside  her  soul's  salvation  and  fancy- 
work.  Jim  has  to  talk  once  in  a  while 
to  keep  himself  a  man.  What  if  he  does 
talk  to  himself?  I  talk  to  myself.  Next 
thing  you  will  want  to  be  appointed 
guardian  over  me,  Amanda."  Hopkin- 


son was  a  bachelor,  and  Amanda  flushed 
angrily. 

"He  wasn't  what  I  call  even  gentle- 
manly," she  told  Alma,  when  the  two 
were  on  their  way  home. 

"I  suppose  Tom  Hopkinson  thought 
you  were  setting  your  cap  at  him,"  re- 
torted Alma.  She  relished  the  dignity 
of  her  married  state,  and  enjoyed  giving 
her  spinster  sister  little  claws  when 
occasion  called.  However,  Amanda  had 
a  temper  of  her  own,  and  she  could  claw 
back. 

"  You  needn't  talk,"  said  she.  "You 
only  took  Joe  Beecher  when  you  had 
given  up  getting  anybody  better.  You 
wanted  Tom  Hopkinson  yourself.  I 
haven't  forgotten  that  blue  silk  dress 
you  got  and  wore  to  meeting.  You 
needn't  talk.  You  know  you  got  that 
dress  just  to  make  Tom  look  at  you,  and 
he  didn't.    You  needn't  talk." 

"I  wouldn't  have  married  Tom  Hop- 
kinson if  he  had  been  the  only  man  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,"  declared  Alma, 
with  dignity;  but  she  colored  hotly. 

Amanda  sniffed.  "Well,  as  near  as  I 
can  find  out,  Uncle  Jim  can  go  on  talk- 
ing to  himself  and  keeping  cats,  and  we 
can't  do  anything,"  said  she. 

When  the  two  women  were  home, 
they  told  Alma's  husband,  Joe  Beecher, 
about  their  lack  of  success.  They  were 
quite  heated  with  their  walk  and  excite- 
ment. "I  call  it  a  shame,"  said  Alma. 
"Anybody  knows  that  poor  Uncle  Jim 
would  be  better  off  with  a  guardian." 

"Of  course,"  said  Amanda.  "What 
man  that  had  a  grain  of  horse  sense 
would  do  such  a  crazy  thing  as  to  keep 
a  coal  fire  in  a  woodshed  ?" 

"For  such  a  slew  of  cats,  too,"  said 
Alma,  nodding  fiercely. 

Alma's  husband,  Joe  Beecher,  spoke 
timidly  and  undecidedly  in  the  defense. 
"You  know,"  he  said,  "that  Mrs.  Adkins 
wouldn't  have  those  cats  in  the  house, 
and  cats  mostly  like  to  sit  round  where 
it's  warm." 


94 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


His  wife  regarded  him.  Her  nose 
wrinkled.  "I  suppose  next  thing  you  11 
be  wanting  to  have  a  cat  round  where 
it's  warm,  right  under  my  feet,  with  all 
I  have  to  do,"  said  she.  Her  voice  had 
an  actual  acidity  of  sound. 

Joe  gasped.  He  was  a  large  man  with 
a  constant  expression  of  wondering 
inquiry.  It  was  the  expression  of  his 
babyhood;  he  had  never  lost  it,  and  it 
was  an  expression  which  revealed  truly 
the  state  of  his  mind.  Always  had  Joe 
Beecher  wondered,  first  of  all  at  finding 
himself  in  the  world  at  all,  then  at  the 
various  happenings  of  existence.  He 
probably  wondered  more  about  the  fact 
of  his  marriage  with  Alma  Bennet  than 
anything  else,  although  he  never  be- 
trayed his  wonder.  He  was  always 
painfully  anxious  to  please  his  wife,  of 
whom  he  stood  in  awe.  Now  he  has- 
tened to  reply:  "Why,  no,  Alma;  of 
course  I  won't." 

"Because,"  said  Alma,  "I  haven't 
come  to  my  time  of  life,  through  all  the 
trials  I've  had,  to  be  taking  any  chances 
of  breaking  my  bones  over  any  miser- 
able, furry,  four-footed  animal  that 
wouldn't  catch  a  mouse  if  one  run  right 
under  her  nose." 

"I  don't  want  any  cat,"  repeated  Joe, 
miserably.  His  fear  and  awe  of  the 
two  women  increased.  When  his  sister- 
in-law  turned  upon  him,  he  fairly 
cringed.  "Cats!"  said  Amanda.  Then 
she  sniffed.  The  sniff"  was  worse  than 
speech.  Joe  repeated  in  a  mumble  that 
he  didn't  want  any  cats,  and  went 
out,  closing  the  door  softly  after  him, 
as  he  had  been  taught.  However,  he 
was  entirely  sure,  in  the  depths  of  his 
subjugated  masculine  mind,  that  his 
wife  and  her  sister  had  no  legal  authority 
whatever  to  interfere  with  their  uncle's 
right  to  keep  a  hundred  coal  fires  in 
his  woodshed,  for  a  thousand  cats.  He 
always  had  an  inner  sense  of  glee  when 
he  heard  the  two  women  talk  over  the 
matter.  Once  Amanda  had  declared 
that  she  did  not  believe  that  Tom  Hop- 
kinson  knew  much  about  law,  anyway. 

"He  seems  to  stand  pretty  high,"  Joe 
ventured,  with  the  utmost  mildness. 

"Yes,  he  does,"  admitted  Alma, 
grudgingly. 

"It  does  not  follow  he  knows  law," 
persisted  Amanda,  "and  it  may  follow 


that  he  likes  cats.  There  was  that 
great  Maltese  tommy  brushing  round 
all  the  time  we  were  in  his  office,  but  I 
didn't  dare  shoo  him  off  for  fear  it 
might  be  against  the  law."  Amanda 
laughed,  a  very  disagreeable  little  laugh. 
Joe  said  nothing,  but  inwardly  he 
chuckled.  It  was  the  cause  of  man  with 
man.  He  realized  a  great,  even  affec- 
tionate, understanding  of  Jim. 

The  day  after  his  nieces  had  visited 
the  lawyer's  office,  Jim  was  preparing 
to  call  on  his  friend  Edward  Hay  ward, 
the  minister.  Before  leaving  he  looked 
carefully  after  the  fire  in  the  woodshed. 
The  stove  was  large.  Jim  piled  on 
the  coal,  regardless  outwardly  that 
his  housekeeper,  Susan  Adkins,  had 
slammed  the  kitchen  door  to  indicate 
her  contempt.  Inwardly  Jim  felt  hurt, 
but  he  had  felt  hurt  so  long  from  the 
same  cause  that  the  sensation  had  be- 
come chronic,  and  was  borne  with  a 
gentle  patience.  Moreover,  there  was 
something  which  troubled  him  more 
and  was  the  reason  for  his  contemplated 
call  on  his  friend.  He  evened  the  coals 
on  the  fire  with  great  care,  and  re- 
plenished from  the  pail  in  the  ice-box 
the  cats'  saucers.  There  was  a  circle  of 
clean  white  saucers  around  the  stove. 
Jim  owned  many  cats;  counting  the  kit- 
tens, there  were  probably  over  twenty. 
Mrs.  Adkins  counted  them  in  the  sixties. 
"Those  sixty-seven  cats,"  she  said. 

Jim  often  gave  away  cats  when  he 
was  confident  of  securing  good  homes, 
but  supply  exceeded  the  demand.  Now 
and  then  tragedies  took  place  in  that 
woodshed.  Susan  Adkins  came  bravely 
to  the  front  upon  these  occasions. 
Quite  convinced  was  Susan  Adkins  that 
she  had  a  good  home,  and  it  behooved 
her  to  keep  it,  and  she  did  not  in  the 
least  object  to  drowning,  now  and  then, 
a  few  very  young  kittens.  She  did  this 
with  neatness  and  despatch  while  Jim 
walked  to  the  store  on  an  errand  and 
was  supposed  to  know  nothing  about 
it.  •  There  was  simply  not  enough  room 
in  his  woodshed  for  the  accumulation  of 
cats,  although  his  heart  could  have 
held  all. 

That  day,  as  he  poured  out  the  milk, 
cats  of  all  ages  and  sizes  and  colors 
purred  in  a  softly  padding  multitude 
around  his  feet,  and  he  regarded  them 


CORONATION 


95 


with  love.  There  were  tiger  cats,  Mal- 
tese cats,  black-and-white  cats,  black 
cats  and  white  cats,  tommies  and  fe- 
males, and  his  heart  leaped  to  meet  the 
pleading  mews  of  all.  The  saucers  were 
surrounded.  Little  pink  tongues  lapped. 
"Pretty  pussy!  pretty  pussy!"  cooed 
Jim,  addressing  them  in  general.  He 
put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat,  which  he 
kept  on  a  peg  behind  the  door.  Jim 
had  an  arm-chair  in  the  woodshed.  He 
always  sat  there  when  he  smoked;  Susan 
Adkins  demurred  at  his  smoking  in  the 
house,  which  she  kept  so  nice,  and  Jim 
did  not  dream  of  rebellion.  He  never 
questioned  the  right  of  a  woman  to  bar 
tobacco  smoke  from  a  house.  Before 
leaving  he  refilled  some  of  the  saucers. 
He  was  not  sure  that  all  of  the  cats  were 
there;  some  might  be  afield,  hunting, 
and  he  wished  them  to  find  refresh- 
ment when  they  returned.  He  stroked 
the  splendid  striped  back  of  a  great 
tiger  tommy  which  filled  his  arm-chair. 
This  cat  was  his  special  pet,  He  fast- 
ened the  outer  shed  door  with  a  bit  of 
rope  in  order  that  it  might  not  blow 
entirely  open,  and  yet  allow  his  feline 
friends  to  pass,  should  they  choose. 
Then  he  went  out. 

The  day  was  clear,  with  a  sharp 
breath  of  frost.  The  fields  gleamed 
with  frost,  offering  to  the  eye  a  fine 
shimmer  as  of  diamond-dust  under  the 
brilliant  blue  sky,  overspread  in  places 
with  a  dapple  of  little  white  clouds. 
"White  frost  and  mackerel  sky;  going 
to  be  falling  weather,"  Jim  said,  aloud, 
as  he  went  out  of  the  yard,  crunching 
the  crisp  grass  under  heel.  Susan  Ad- 
kins at  a  window  saw  his  lips  moving. 
His  talking  to  himself  made  her  nervous, 
although  it  did  not  render  her  distrustful 
of  his  sanity.  It  was  fortunate  that 
Susan  had  not  told  Jim  that  she  disliked 
his  habit.  In  that  case  he  would  have 
deprived  himself  of  that  slight  solace; 
he  would  not  have  dreamed  of  opposing 
Susan's  wishes.  Jim  had  a  great  pity 
for  the  nervous  whims,  as  he  regarded 
them,  of  women — a  pity  so  intense  and 
tender  that  it  verged  on  respect  and 
veneration.  He  passed  his  nieces'  house 
on  the  way  to  the  minister's,  and  both 
were  looking  out  of  windows  and  saw 
his  lips  moving.  "There  he  goes,  talk- 
ing to  himself  like  a  crazy  loon,"  said 


Amanda.  Alma  nodded.  Jim  went  on, 
blissfully  unconscious.  He  talked  in  a 
quiet  monotone;  only  now  and  then  his 
voice  rose;  only  now  and  then  there  were 
accompanying  gestures.  Jim  had  a 
straight  mile  down  the  broad  village 
street  to  walk  before  he  reached  the 
church  and  the  parsonage  beside  it. 

Jim  and  the  minister  had  been  friends 
since  boyhood.  They  were  graduates 
and  classmates  of  the  same  college.  Jim 
had  had  unusual  educational  advantages 
for  a  man  coming  from  a  simple  family. 
The  front  door  of  the  parsonage  flew 
open  when  Jim  entered  the  gate,  and  the 
minister  stood  there  smiling.  He  was  a 
tall,  thin  man  with  a  wide  mouth,  which 
either  smiled  charmingly  or  was  set  with 
severity.  He  was  as  brown  and  dry  as 
a  wayside  weed  which  winter  had  sub- 
dued as  to  bloom  but  could  not  entirely 
prostrate  with  all  its  icy  storms  and 
compelling  blasts.  Jim,  advancing 
eagerly  toward  the  warm  welcome  in  the 
door,  was  a  small  man,  and  bent  at  that, 
but  he  had  a  handsome  old  face,  with 
the  rose  of  youth  on  the  cheeks  and  the 
light  of  youth  in  the  blue  eyes,  and  the 
quick  changes  of  youth,  before  emotions, 
about  the  mouth. 

"Hullo,  Jim!"  cried  Dr.  Edward 
Hayward.  Hayward,  for  a  doctor  of 
divinity,  was  considered  somewhat  lack- 
ing in  dignity  at  times;  still,  he  was  Dr. 
Hayward,  and  the  failing  was  condoned. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  Hayward,  and  the 
Haywards  had  been,  from  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  the  great  people 
of  the  village.  Dr.  Hayward's  house 
was  presided  over  by  his  widowed 
cousin,  a  lady  of  enough  dignity  to  make 
up  for  any  lack  of  it  in  the  minister. 
There  were  three  servants,  besides  the 
old  butler  who  had  been  Hayward's 
attendant  when  he  had  been  a  young 
man  in  college.  Village  people  were 
proud  of  their  minister,  with  his  degree 
and  what  they  considered  an  imposing 
household  retinue. 

Hayward  led,  and  Jim  followed,  to 
the  least  pretentious  room  in  the  house 
— not  the  study  proper,  which  was  lofty, 
book-lined,  and  leather-furnished,  cur- 
tained with  broad  sweeps  of  crimson 
damask,  but  a  little  shabby  place  back 
of  it,  accessible  by  a  narrow  door.  The 
little  room  was  lined  with  shelves;  they 


96 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


held  few  books,  but  a  collection  of 
queer  and  dusty  things — strange  weap- 
ons, minerals,  odds  and  ends — which  the 
minister  loved  and  with  which  his  lady- 
cousin  never  interfered.  "Louisa," 
Hayward  had  told  his  cousin  when  she 
entered  upon  her  post,  "do  as  you  like 
with  the  whole  house,  but  let  my  little 
study  alone.  Let  it  look  as  if  it  had 
been  stirred  up  with  a  garden-rake — that 
little  room  is  my  territory,  and  no  dis- 
grace to  you,  my  dear,  if  the  dust  rises 
in  clouds  at  every  step." 

Jim  was  as  fond  of  the  little  room  as 
his  friend.  He  entered  and  sighed  a 
great  sigh  of  satisfaction  as  he  sank  into 
the  shabby,  dusty  hollow  of  a  large 
chair  before  the  hearth  fire.  Immedi- 
ately a  black  cat  leaped  into  his  lap, 
gazed  at  him  with  green-jewel  eyes, 
worked  her  paws,  purred,  settled  into  a 
coil,  and  slept.  Jim  lit  his  pipe  and 
threw  the  match  blissfully  on  the  floor. 
Dr.  Hayward  set  an  electric  coffee-urn 
at  its  work,  for  the  little  room  was  a 
curious  mixture  of  the  comfortable  old 
and  the  comfortable  modern. 

"Sam  shall  serve  our  luncheon  in 
here,"  he  said,  with  a  staid  glee.  Jim 
nodded  happily.  "Louisa  will  not 
mind,"  said  Hayward.  "She  is  precise, 
but  she  has  a  fine  regard  for  the  rights 
of  the  individual,  which  is  most  com- 
mendable." He  seated  himself  in  a 
companion  chair  to  Jim's,  lit  his  own 
pipe,  and  threw  the  match  on  the  floor. 
Occasionally,  when  the  minister  was  out, 
Sam,  without  orders  so  to  do,  cleared  the 
floor  of  matches. 

Hayward  smoked  and  regarded  his 
friend,  who  looked  troubled  despite  his 
comfort.  "What  is  it,  Jim?"  asked  the 
minister  at  last. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  do  what  is 
right  for  me  to  do,"  replied  the  little 
man,  and  his  face,  turned  toward  his 
friend,  had  the  puzzled  earnestness  of 
a  child.  Ha}rward  laughed.  It  was 
easily  seen  that  his  was  the  keener 
mind.  In  natural  endowments  there 
had  never  been  equality,  although  there 
was  great  similarity  of  tastes.  Jim, 
despite  his  education,  often  lapsed  into 
the  homely  vernacular  of  which  he 
heard  so  much.  An  involuntarily  imi- 
tative man  in  externals  was  Jim,  but 
essentially  an  original.    Jim  proceeded. 


"You  know,  Edward,  I  have  never  been 
one  to  complain,"  he  said,  with  an 
almost  boyish  note  of  apology. 

"Never  complained  half  enough; 
that's  the  trouble,"  returned  the  other. 

"Well,  I  overheard  something  Mis' 
Adkins  said  to  Mis'  Amos  Trimmer  the 
other  afternoon.  Mis'  Trimmer  was 
calling  on  Mis'  Adkins.  I  couldn't  help 
overhearing,  unless  I  went  outdoors,  and 
it  was  snowing  and  I  had  a  cold.  I 
wasn't  listening." 

"Had  a  right  to  listen  if  you  wanted 
to,"  declared  Hayward,  irascibly. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  help  it,  unless  I 
went  outdoors.  Mis'  Adkins,  she  was  in 
the  kitchen  making  light-bread  for  sup- 
per, and  Mis'  Trimmer  had  sat  right 
down  there  with  her.  Mis'  Adkins' 
kitchen  is  as  clean  as  a  parlor,  anyway. 
Mis'  Adkins  said  to  Mis'  Trimmer, 
speaking  of  me — because  Mis'  Trimmer 
had  just  asked  where  I  was  and  Mis' 
Adkins  had  said  I  was  out  in  the  wood- 
shed sitting  with  the  cats  and  smoking 
—Mis'  Adkins  said,  'He's  just  a  door- 
mat, that's  what  he  is.'  Then  Mis' 
Trimmer  says,  'The  way  he  lets  folks 
ride  over  him  beats  me.'  Then  Mis' 
Adkins  says  again,  'He's  nothing  but  a 
door-mat.  He  lets  everybody  that  wants 
to  just  trample  on  him  and  grind  their 
dust  into  him,  and  he  acts  real  pleased 
and  grateful.'" 

Hayward's  face  flushed.  "Did  Mrs. 
Adkins  mention  that  she  was  one  of  the 
people  who  used  you  for  a  door-mat?" 
he  demanded. 

Jim  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
like  a  child,  with  the  sweetest  sense  of 
unresentful  humor.  "Lord  bless  my 
soul,  Edward,"  replied  Jim,  "I  don't 
believe  she  ever  thought  of  that." 

"And  at  that  very  minute  you,  with 
a  hard  cold,  were  sitting  out  in  that 
draughty  shed  smoking,  because  she 
wouldn't  allow  you  to  smoke  in  your 
own  house!" 

"I  don't  mind  that,  Edward,"  said 
Jim,  and  laughed  again. 

"  Could  you  see  to  read  your  paper  out 
there,  with  only  that  little  shed  window? 
And  don't  you  like  to  read  your  paper 
while  you  smoke?" 

"Oh  yes,"  admitted  Jim;  "but  my!  I 
don't  mind  little  things  like  that!  Mis' 
Adkins  is  only  a  poor  widow  woman,  and 


CORONATION 


97 


keeping  my  house  nice  and  not  having 
it  smell  of  tobacco  is  all  she's  got. 
They  can  talk  about  women's  rights — I 
feel  as  if  they  ought  to  have  them  fast 
enough,  if  they  want  them,  poor  things; 
a  woman  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe,  and  will 
have,  if  she  gets  all  the  rights  in  creation. 
But  I  guess  the  rights  they'd  find  it 
hardest  to  give  up  would  be  the  rights 
to  have  men  look  after  them  just  a  little 
more  than  they  look  after  other  men, 
just  because  they  are  women.  When  I 
think  of  Annie  Berry — the  girl  I  was 
going  to  marry,  you  know,  if  she  hadn't 
died — I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  do  enough 
for  another  woman.  Lord!  I'm  glad  to 
sit  out  in  the  woodshed  and  smoke. 
Mis'  Adkins  is  pretty  good-natured  to 
stand  all  the  cats." 

Then  the  coffee  boiled,  and  Hayward 
poured  out  cups  for  Jim  and  himself. 
He  had  a  little  silver  service  at  hand, 
and  willow-ware  cups  and  saucers. 
Presently  Sam  appeared,  and  Hayward 
gave  orders  concerning  luncheon.  "Tell 
Miss  Louisa  we  are  to  have  it  served 
here,"  said  he,  "and  mind,  Sam,  the 
chops  are  to  be  thick  and  cooked  the 
way  we  like  them;  and  don't  forget  the 
East  India  chutney,  Sam." 

"It  does  seem  rather  a  pity  that  you 
cannot  have  chutney  at  home  with  your 
chops,  when  you  are  so  fond  of  it,"  re- 
marked Hayward  when  Sam  had  gone. 

"Mis'  Adkins  says  it  will  give  me  liver 
trouble,  and  she  isn't  strong  enough  to 
nurse." 

"So  you  have  to  eat  her  ketchup?" 

"Well,  she  doesn't  put  seasoning  in 
it,"  admitted  Jim.  "But  Mis'  Adkins 
doesn't  like  seasoning  herself,  and  I 
don't  mind." 

"And  I  know  the  chops  are  never  cut 
thick,  the  way  we  like  them." 

"Mis'  Adkins  likes  her  meat  well 
done,  and  she  can't  get  such  thick  chops 
well  done.  I  suppose  our  chops  are 
rather  thin,  but  I  don't  mind." 

"Beefsteak  and  chops,  both  cut  thin, 
and  fried  up  like  sole  leather.  I  know!" 
said  Dr.  Hayward,  and  he  stamped  his 
foot  with  unregenerate  force. 

"I  don't  mind  a  bit,  Edward." 

"You  ought  to  mind,  when  it  is  your 
own  house,  and  you  buy  the  food  and 
pay  your  housekeeper.  It  is  an  out- 
rage! 


"I  don't  mind,  really,  Edward." 

Dr.  Hayward  regarded  Jim  with  a 
curious  expression  compounded  of  love, 
of  anger,  and  contempt.  "Any  more 
talk  of  legal  proceedings?"  he  asked, 
brusquely. 

Jim  flushed.  "Tom  ought  not  to  tell 
of  that." 

"Yes,  he  ought;  he  ought  to  tell  it 
all  over  town.  He  doesn't,  but  he 
ought.  It  is  an  outrage!  Here  you 
have  been  all  these  years  supporting 
your  nieces,  and  they  are  working  away 
like  field-mice,  burrowing  under  your 
generosity,  trying  to  get  a  chance  to  take 
action  and  appropriate  your  property 
and  have  you  put  under  a  guardian." 

"I  don't  mind  a  bit,"  said  Jim; 
"but—" 

The  other  man  looked  inquiringly  at 
him,  and,  seeing  a  pitiful  working  of  his 
friend's  face,  he  jumped  up  and  got  a 
little  jar  from  a  shelf.  "We  will  drop 
the  whole  thing  until  we  have  had  our 
chops  and  chutney,"  said  he.  "You  are 
right;  it  is  not  worth  minding.  Here  is 
a  new  brand  of  tobacco  I  want  you  to 
try.  I  don't  half  like  it,  myself,  but 
you  may."  Jim,  with  a  pleased  smile, 
reached  out  for  the  tobacco,  and  the 
two  men  smoked  until  Sam  brought  the 
luncheon.  It  was  well  cooked  and  well 
served  on  an  antique  table.  Jim  was 
thoroughly  happy.  It  was  not  until 
the  luncheon  was  over  and  another  pipe 
smoked  that  the  troubled,  perplexed 
expression  returned  to  his  face. 

"Now,"  said  Hayward,  "out  with  it!" 

"It  is  only  the  old  affair  about  Alma 
and  Amanda,  but  now  it  has  taken  on  a 
sort  of  new  aspect." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  new 
aspect?" 

"It  seems,"  said  Jim,  slowly,  "as  if 
they  were  making  it  so  I  couldn't  do  for 
them." 

Hayward  stamped  his  foot.  "That 
does  sound  new,"  he  said,  dryly.  "I 
never  thought  Alma  Beecher  or  Amanda 
Bennet  ever  objected  to  have  you  do 
for  them." 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "perhaps  they  don't 
now,  but  they  want  me  to  do  it  in  their 
own  way.  They  don't  want  to  feel  as 
if  I  was  giving  and  they  taking;  they 
want  it  to  seem  the  other  way  round. 
You  see,  if  I  were  to  deed  over  my 


98 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


property  to  them,  and  then  they  allow- 
ance me,  they  would  feel  as  if  they 
were  doing  the  giving." 

"Jim,  you  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool  as 
that?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't,"  replied  Jim,  simply. 
"They  wouldn't  know  how  to  take  care 
of  it,  and  Mis'  Adkins  would  be  left  to 
shift  for  herself.  Joe  Beecher  is  real 
good-hearted,  but  he  always  lost  every 
dollar  he  touched.  No,  there  wouldn't 
be  any  sense  in  that.  I  don't  mean  to 
give  in,  but  I  do  feel  pretty  well  worked 
up  over  it." 

"What  have  they  said  to  you?" 

Jim  hesitated. 

"Out  with  it,  now.  One  thing  you 
may  be  sure  of:  nothing  that  you  can 
tell  me  will  alter  my  opinion  of  your  two 
nieces  for  the  worse.  As  for  poor  Joe 
Beecher,  there  is  no  opinion,  one  way  or 
the  other.    What  did  they  say?" 

Jim  regarded  his  friend  with  a  curi- 
ously sweet,  far-ofF  expression.  "Ed- 
ward," he  said,  "sometimes  I  believe 
that  the  greatest  thing  a  man's  friends 
can  do  for  him  is  to  drive  him  into  a 
corner  with  God;  to  be  so  unjust  to  him 
that  they  make  him  understand  that 
God  is  all  that  mortal  man  is  meant  to 
have,  and  that  is  why  he  finds  out  that 
most  people,  especially  the  ones  he  does 
for,  don't  care  for  him." 

Hayward  looked  solemnly  and  ten- 
derly at  the  other's  almost  rapt  face. 
"You  are  right,  I  suppose,  old  man," 
said  he;  "but  what  did  they  do?" 

"They  called  me  in  there  about  a 
week  ago  and  gave  me  an  awful  talk- 
ing to." 

"About  what?" 

Jim  looked  at  his  friend  with  dignity. 
"They  were  two  women  talking,  and 
they  went  into  little  matters  not  worth 
repeating,"  said  he.  "All  is  —  they 
seemed  to  blame  me  for  everything  I 
had  ever  done  for  them,  and  for  every- 
thing I  had  ever  done,  anyway.  They 
seemed  to  blame  me  for  being  born  and 
living,  and,  most  of  all,  for  doing  any- 
thing for  them." 

"It  is  an  outrage!"  declared  Hayward. 
"Can't  you  see  it?" 

"I  can't  seem  to  see  anything  plain 
about  it,"  returned  Jim,  in  a  bewildered 
way.  "I  always  supposed  a  man  had 
to  do  something  bad  to  be  given  a  talk- 


ing to;  but  it  isn't  so  much  that,  and  I 
don't  bear  any  malice  against  them. 
They  are  only  two  women,  and  they  are 
nervous.  What  worries  me  is,  they  do 
need  things,  and  they  can't  get  on  and 
be  comfortable  unless  I  do  for  them; 
but  if  they  are  going  to  feel  that  way 
about  it,  it  seems  to  cut  me  off  from  do- 
ing, and  that  does  worry  me,  Edward." 

The  other  man  stamped.  "Jim  Ben- 
net,"  he  said,  "they  have  talked,  and 
now  I  am  going  to." 

"  You,  Edward?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  It  is  entirely  true  what 
those  two  women,  Susan  Adkins  and 
Mrs.  Trimmer,  said  about  you.  You 
are  a  door-mat,  and  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself  for  it.  A  man 
should  be  a  man,  and  not  a  door-mat. 
It  is  the  worst  thing  in  the  world  for 
people  to  walk  over  him  and  trample 
him.  It  does  them  much  more  harm 
than  it  does  him.  In  the  end  the 
trampler  is  much  worse  off  than  the 
trampled  upon.  Jim  Bennet,  your  being 
a  door-mat  may  cost  other  people  their 
souls'  salvation.  You  are  selfish  in  the 
grain  to  be  a  door-mat." 

Jim  turned  pale.  His  childlike  face 
looked  suddenly  old  with  his  mental 
effort  to  grasp  the  other's  meaning.  In 
fact,  he  was  a  child — one  of  the  little 
ones  of  the  world — although  he  had 
lived  the  span  of  a  man's  life.  Now  one 
of  the  hardest  problems  of  the  elders  of 
the  world  was  presented  to  him.  "You 
mean — "  he  said,  faintly. 

"I  mean,  Jim,  that  for  the  sake  of 
other  people,  if  not  for  your  own  sake, 
you  ought  to  stop  being  a  door-mat  and 
be  a  man  in  this  world  of  men." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  straight  to  those 
nieces  of  yours  and  tell  them  the  truth. 
You  know  what  your  wrongs  are  as  well 
as  I  do.  You  know  what  those  two 
women  are  as  well  as  I  do.  They  keep 
the  letter  of  the  Ten  Commandments — 
that  is  right.  They  attend  my  church 
— that  is  right.  They  scour  the  outside 
of  the  platter  until  it  is  bright  enough 
to  blind  those  people  who  don't  under- 
stand them;  but  inwardly  they  are  petty, 
ravening  wolves  of  greed  and  ingrati- 
tude. Go  and  tell  them;  they  don't 
know  themselves.  Show  them  what 
they  are.    It  is  your  Christian  duty." 


Draun  by  Walter  Biggs. 

THE    TWO    MEN    SMOKED    UNTIL    SAM    BROUGHT    THE  LUNCHEON 


CORONATION 


99 


"You  don't  mean  for  me  to  stop 
doing  for  them?" 

"I  certainly  do  mean  just  that — for  a 
while,  anyway." 

"They  can't  possibly  get  along,  Ed- 
ward; they  will  suffer." 

"They  have  a  little  money,  haven't 
they?" 

"Only  a  little  in  savings-bank.  The 
interest  pays  their  taxes." 
"And  you  gave  them  that?" 
Jim  colored. 

"Very  well,  their  taxes  are  paid  for 
this  year;  let  them  use  that  money. 
They  will  not  suffer,  except  in  their 
feelings,  and  that  is  where  they  ought  to 
suffer.  Man,  you  would  spoil  all  the 
work  of  the  Lord  by  your  selfish  tender- 
ness toward  sinners!" 
1  hey  aren  t  sinners. 

"Yes,  they  are — spiritual  sinners,  the 
worst  kind  in  the  world.    Now — " 

"You  don't  mean  for  me  to  go  now?" 

"Yes,  I  do — now.  If  you  don't  go 
now,  you  never  will.  Then,  afterward, 
I  want  you  to  go  home  and  sit  in  your 
best  parlor  and  smoke,  and  have  all  your 
cats  in  there,  too." 

Jim  gasped.  "But,  Edward!  Mis' 
Adkins—" 

"I  don't  care  about  Mrs.  Adkins. 
She  isn't  as  bad  as  the  rest,  but  she  needs 
her  little  lesson,  too." 

"Edward,  the  way  that  poor  woman 
works  to  keep  the  house  nice — and  she 
don't  like  the  smell  of  tobacco  smoke." 

"Never  mind  whether  she  likes  it  or 
not.    You  smoke." 

"And  she  don't  like  cats." 

"Never  mind.    Now,  you  go." 

Jim  stood  up.  There  was  a  curious 
change  in  his  rosy,  childlike  face.  There 
was  a  species  of  quickening.  He  looked 
at  once  older  and  more  alert.  His 
friend's  words  had  charged  him  as  with 
electricity.  When  he  went  down  the 
street  he  looked  taller. 

Amanda  Bennet  and  Alma  Beecher, 
sitting  sewing  at  their  street  windows, 
made  this  mistake. 

"That  isn't  Uncle  Jim,"  said  Amanda. 
"That  man  is  a  head  taller,  but  he  looks 
a  little  like  him." 

"  It  can't  be  Uncle  Jim,"  agreed  Alma. 
Then  both  started.  "It  is  Uncle  Jim, 
and  he  is  coming  here,"  said  Amanda. 

Jim  entered.    Nobody  except  himself, 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  763.— 13 


his  nieces,  and  Joe  Beecher  ever  knew 
exactly  what  happened,  what  was  the 
aspect  of  the  door-mat  erected  to  human 
life,  of  the  worm  turned  to  menace.  It 
must  have  savored  of  horror,  as  do  all 
meek  and  down-trodden  things  when 
they  gain,  driven  to  bay,  the  strength 
to  do  battle.  It  must  have  savored  of 
the  godlike,  when  the  man  who  had 
borne  with  patience,  dignity,  and  sor- 
row for  them  the  stings  of  lesser  things 
because  they  were  lesser  things,  at  last 
arose  and  revealed  himself  superior,  with 
a  great  height  of  the  spirit,  with  the 
power  to  crush. 

When  Jim  stopped  talking  and  went 
home,  two  pale,  shocked  faces  of 
women  gazed  after  him  from  the  win- 
dows. Joe  Beecher  was  sobbing  like  a 
child.  Finally  his  wife  turned  her 
frightened  face  upon  him,  glad  to  have 
still  some  one  to  intimidate. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Joe  Beecher, 
stop  crying  like  a  baby,"  said  she,  but 
she  spoke  in  a  queer  whisper,  for  her 
lips  were  stiff. 

Joe  stood  up  and  made  for  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  his 
wife. 

"Going  to  get  a  job  somewhere,"  re- 
plied Joe,  and  went.  Soon  the  women 
saw  him  driving  a  neighbor's  cart  up  the 
street. 

"He's  going  to  cart  gravel  for  John 
Leach's  new  sidewalk!"  gasped  Alma. 

"Why  don't  you  stop  him?"  cried  her 
sister.  "You  can't  have  your  husband 
driving  a  tip-cart  for  John  Leach.  Stop 
him,  Alma!" 

"I  can't  stop  him,"  moaned  Alma. 
"I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  stop  anything." 

Her  sister  gazed  at  her,  and  the  same 
expression  was  on  both  faces,  making 
them  more  than  sisters  of  the  flesh. 
Both  saw  before  them  a  stern  boundary 
wall  against  which  they  might  press  in 
vain  for  the  rest  of  their  lives,  and  both 
saw  the  same  sins  of  their  hearts. 

Meantime  Jim  Bennet  was  seated  in 
his  best  parlor  and  Susan  Adkins  was 
whispering  to  Mrs.  Trimmer  out  in  the 
kitchen. 

"I  don't  know  whether  he's  gone 
stark,  staring  mad  or  not,"  whispered 
Susan,  "but  he's  in  the  parlor  smoking 
his  worst  old  pipe,  and  that  big  tiger 
tommy  is  sitting  in  his  lap,  and  he's  let 


100 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


in  all  the  other  cats,  and  they're  nosing 
round,  and  I  don't  dare  drive  'em  out. 
I  took  up  the  broom,  then  I  put  it  away 
again.  I  never  knew  Mr.  Bennet  to  act 
so.    I  can't  think  what's  got  into  him." 

"Did  he  say  anything?" 

"No,  he  didn't  say  much  of  anything, 
but  he  said  it  in  a  way  that  made  my 
flesh  fairly  creep.  Says  he,  'As  long  as 
this  is  my  house  and  my  furniture  and 
my  cats,  Mis'  Adkins,  I  think  I'll  sit 
down  in  the  parlor,  where  I  can  see  to 
read  my  paper,  and  smoke  at  the  same 
time.'  Then  he  holds  the  kitchen  door 
open,  and  he  calls,  'Kitty,  kitty,  kitty!' 
and  that  great  tiger  tommy  comes  in 
with  his  tail  up,  rubbing  round  his  legs, 
and  all  the  other  cats  followed  after.  I 
shut  the  door  before  these  last  ones  got 
into  the  parlor."  Susan  Adkins  re- 
garded malevolently  the  three  tortoise- 
shell  cats  of  three  generations  and  vari- 
ous stages  of  growth,  one  Maltese  settled 
in  a  purring  round  of  comfort  with  four 
kittens,  and  one  perfectly  black  cat, 
which  sat  glaring  at  her  with  beryl- 
colored  eyes. 

"That  black  cat  looks  evil,"  said  Mrs. 
Trimmer. 

"Yes,  he  does.  I  don't  know  why  I 
didn't  drown  him  when  he  was  a 
kitten." 

"Why  didn't  you  drown  all  those 
Malty  kittens?" 

"The  old  cat  hid  them  away  until 
they  were  too  big.  Then  he  wouldn't 
let  me.  What  do  you  suppose  has  come 
to  him?    Just  smell  that  awful  pipe!" 

"Men  do  take  queer  streaks  every 
now  and  then,"  said  Mrs.  Trimmer. 
"My  husband  used  to,  and  he  was  as 
good  as  they  make  'em,  poor  man.  He 
would  eat  sugar  on  his  beefsteak,  for 
one  thing.  The  first  time  I  saw  him  do 
it  I  was  scared.  I  thought  he  was  plum 
crazy,  but  afterward  I  found  out  it  was 
just  because  he  was  a  man,  and  his  ma 
hadn't  wanted  him  to  eat  sugar  when 
he  was  a  boy.  Mr.  Bennet  will  get 
over  it." 

"He  don't  act  as  if  he  would." 

"Oh  yes,  he  will.  Jim  Bennet  never 
stuck  to  anything  but  being  Jim  Bennet 
for  very  long  in  his  life,  and  this  ain't 
being  Jim  Bennet." 

"He  is  a  very  good  man,"  said  Susan, 
with  a  somewhat  apologetic  tone. 


"He's  too  good." 

"He's  too  good  to  cats." 

"  Seems  to  me  he's  too  good  to  'most 
everybody.  Think  what  he  has  done  for 
Amanda  and  Alma,  and  how  they  act!" 

"Yes,  they  are  ungrateful  and  real 
mean  to  him;  and  I  feel  sometimes  as 
if  I  would  like  to  tell  them  just  what  I 
think  of  them,"  said  Susan  Adkins. 
"  Poor  man,  there  he  is,  studying  all  the 
time  what  he  can  do  for  people,  and  he 
don't  get  very  much  himself." 

Mrs.  Trimmer  arose  to  take  leave. 
She  had  a  long,  sallow  face,  capable  of  a 
sarcastic  smile.  "Then,"  said  she,  "if 
I  were  you  I  wouldn't  begrudge  him  a 
chair  in  the  parlor  and  a  chance  to  read 
and  smoke  and  hold  a  pussy-cat." 

"Who  said  I  was  begrudging  it?  I 
can  air  out  the  parlor  when  he's  got  over 
the  notion." 

"Well,  he  will,  so  you  needn't  worry," 
said  Mrs.  Trimmer.  As  she  went  down 
the  street  she  could  see  Jim's  profile  be- 
side the  parlor  window,  and  she  smiled 
her  sarcastic  smile,  which  was  not 
altogether  unpleasant.  "He's  stopped 
smoking,  and  he  ain't  reading,"  she  told 
herself.  "It  won't  be  very  long  before 
he's  Jim  Bennet  again." 

But  it  was  longer  than  she  anticipated, 
for  Jim's  will  was  propped  by  Edward 
Hayward's.  Edward  kept  Jim  to  his 
standpoint  for  weeks,  until  a  few  days 
before  Christmas.  Then  came  self- 
assertion,  that  self-assertion  of  negation 
which  was  all  that  Jim  possessed  in  such 
a  crisis.  He  called  upon  Dr.  Hayward; 
the  two  were  together  in  the  little  study 
for  nearly  an  hour,  and  talk  ran  high, 
then  Jim  prevailed. 

"It's  no  use,  Edward,"  he  said;  "a 
man  can't  be  made  over  when  he's  cut 
and  dried  in  one  fashion,  the  way  I  am. 
Maybe  I'm  doing  wrong,  but  to  me  it 
looks  like  doing  right,  and  there's  some- 
thing in  the  Bible  about  every  man 
having  his  own  right  and  wrong.  If 
what  you  say  is  true,  and  I  am  hindering 
the  Lord  Almighty  in  His  work,  then  it 
is  for  Him  to  stop  me.  He  can  do  it. 
But  meantime  I've  got  to  go  on  doing 
the  way  I  always  have.  Joe  has  been 
trying  to  drive  that  tip-cart,  and  the 
horse  ran  away  with  him  twice.  Then 
he  let  the  cart  fall  on  his  foot  and  mash 
one  of  his  toes,  and  he  can  hardly  get 


Drawn  by  Walter  Biggs. 

SMOKING    IN    THE    PARLOR,    WHERE    HE    HAD    LET    IN    ALL    THE  CATS 


102 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


round,  and  Amanda  and  Alma  don't 
dare  touch  that  money  in  the  bank  for 
fear  of  not  having  enough  to  pay  the 
taxes  next  year  in  case  I  don't  help  them. 
They  only  had  a  little  money  on  hand 
when  I  gave  them  that  talking  to,  and 
Christmas  is  'most  here,  and  they 
haven't  got  things  they  really  need. 
Amanda's  coat  that  she  wore  to  meeting 
last  Sunday  didn't  look  very  warm  to 
me,  and  poor  Alma  had  her  furs  chewed 
up  by  the  Leach  dog,  and  she's  going 
without  any.  They  need  lots  of  things. 
And  poor  Mis'  Adkins  is  'most  sick  with 
tobacco  smoke.  I  can  see  it,  though  she 
doesn't  say  anything,  and  the  nice 
parlor  curtains  are  full  of  it,  and  cat 
hairs  are  all  over  things.  I  can't  hold 
out  any  longer,  Edward.  Maybe  I  am 
a  door-mat;  and  if  I  am,  and  it  is  wicked, 
may  the  Lord  forgive  me,  for  I've  got  to 
keep  right  on  being  a  door-mat." 

Hayward  sighed  and  lighted  his  pipe. 
However,  he  had  given  up  and  connived 
with  Jim. 

On  Christmas  eve  the  two  men  were 
in  hiding  behind  a  clump  of  cedars  in 
the  front  yard  of  Jim's  nieces'  house. 
They  watched  the  expressman  deliver  a 
great  load  of  boxes  and  packages.  Jim 
drew  a  breath  of  joyous  relief. 

"They  are  taking  them  in,"  he  whis- 
pered— "they  are  taking  them  in,  Ed- 
ward !" 

Hayward  looked  down  at  the  dim  face 
of  the  man  beside  him,  and  something 
akin  to  fear  entered  his  heart.  He  saw 
the  face  of  a  lifelong  friend,  but  he  saw 
something  in  it  which  he  had  never 
recognized  before.  He  saw  the  face  of 
one  of  the  children  of  heaven,  giving 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  need  of  others, 
and  glorifying  the  gifts  with  the  love  and 
pity  of  an  angel. 

"I  was  afraid  they  wouldn't  take 
them!"  whispered  Jim,  and  his  watching 
face  was  beautiful,  although  it  was  only 
the  face  of  a  little,  old  man  of  a  little 
village,  with  no  great  gift  of  intellect. 
There  was  a  full  moon  riding  high;  the 
ground  was  covered  with  a  glistening 
snow-level,  over  which  wavered  wonder- 
ful shadows,  as  of  wings.  One  great 
star  prevailed  despite  the  silver  might 
of  the  moon.  To  Hayward,  Jim's  face 
seemed  to  prevail,  as  that  star,  among 
all  the  faces  of  humanity. 


Jim  crept  noiselessly  toward  a  win- 
dow, Hayward  at  his  heels.  The  two 
could  see  the  lighted  interior  plainly. 

"See  poor  Alma  trying  on  her  furs," 
whispered  Jim,  in  a  rapture.  "See 
Amanda  with  her  coat.  They  have 
found  the  money.  See  Joe  heft  the 
turkey."  Suddenly  he  caught  Hay- 
ward's  arm,  and  the  two  crept  away. 
Out  on  the  road,  Jim  fairly  sobbed  with 
pure  delight.  "Oh,  Edward,"  he  said, 
"I  am  so  thankful  they  took  the  things! 
I  was  so  afraid  they  wouldn't,  and  they 
needed  them!  Oh,  Edward,  I  am  so 
thankful!"  Edward  pressed  his  friend's 
arm. 

When  they  reached  Jim's  house  a 
great  tiger-cat  leaped  to  Jim's  shoul- 
der with  the  silence  and  swiftness  of 
a  shadow.  "He's  always  watching 
for  me,"  said  Jim,  proudly.  "Pussy! 
Pussy!"  The  cat  began  to  purr  loudly, 
and  rubbed  his  splendid  head  against 
the  man's  cheek. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hayward,  with 
something  of  awe  in  his  tone,  "that  you 
won't  smoke  in  the  parlor  to-night?" 

"Edward,  I  really  can't.  Poor  wom- 
an, she's  got  it  all  aired  and  beautifully 
cleaned,  and  she's  so  happy  over  it. 
There's  a  good  fire  in  the  shed,  and  I 
will  sit  there  with  the  pussy-cats  until 
I  go  to  bed.  Oh,  Edward,  I  am  so 
thankful  that  they  took  the  things!" 

"Good  night,  Jim." 

"Good  night.  You  don't  blame  me, 
Edward  ?" 

"Who  am  I  to  blame  you,  Jim?  Good 
night." 

Hayward  watched  the  little  man  pass 
along  the  path  to  the  shed  door.  Jim's 
back  was  slightly  bent,  but  to  his  friend 
it  seemed  bent  beneath  a  holy  burden  of 
love  and  pity  for  all  humanity,  and  the 
inheritance  of  the  meek  seemed  to  crown 
that  drooping  old  head.  The  door-mat, 
again  spread  freely  for  the  trampling 
feet  of  all  who  got  comfort  thereby,  be- 
came a  blessed  thing.  The  humble 
creature,  despised  and  held  in  contempt 
like  One  greater  than  he,  giving  for  the 
sake  of  the  needs  of  others,  went  along 
the  narrow  footpath  through  the  snow. 
The  minister  took  off  his  hat  and  stood 
watching  until  the  door  was  opened  and 
closed  and  the  little  window  gleamed 
with  golden  light. 


The  Telegram 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

''LIE'S  suffering — maybe  dying — and  I  not  there  to  aid, 

*■  *-  And  smooth  his  bed  and  whisper  to  him!   Can  I  nohow  go? 
Only  the  nurse's  brief  twelve  words  thus  hurriedly  conveyed 
As  by  stealth,  to  let  me  know. 

"He  was  the  best  and  brightest! — candor  shone  upon  his  brow, 
And  I  shall  never  meet  again  a  man  so  high  as  he, 
And  I  loved  him  ere  I  knew  it,  and  perhaps  he's  sinking  now, 
Far,  far  removed  from  me!" 


The  yachts  ride  mute  at  anchor  and  the  fulling  moon  is  fair, 
And  the  giddy  folk  are  strutting  up  and  down  the  smooth  parade, 
And  in  her  wild  distraction  she  seems  not  to  be  aware 
That  she  lives  no  more  a  maid, 

But  has  vowed  and  wived  herself  to  me  who  have  blessed  the  ground 
she  trod, 

One  who  wooed  her  single-heartedly  and  thought  her  history  known 
In  its  last  particular  to  him — aye,  almost  as  to  God, 
And  believed  her  quite  his  own. 

So  great  her  absent-mindedness  she  droops  as  in  a  swoon, 
And  a  movement  of  aversion  mars  her  recent  spousal  grace, 
And  in  silence  we  two  sit  here  in  our  waning  honeymoon 
At  this  idle  watering-place. 

What  now  I  see  before  me  is  a  long  lane  overhung 
With  lovelessness,  and  stretching  from  the  present  to  the  grave, 
And  I  would  I  were  away  from  this,  with  friends  I  knew  when  young, 
Ere  a  woman  called  me  slave. 


A  Diplomat's  Wife  in  Washington 


DURING    THE    GRANT    AND    HAYES  ADMINISTRATIONS 

BY  MADAME  DE  HEGERM  ANN -LIN  DEN  CRONE 

Wife  of  the  Danish  Minister  to  Washington — 1876-1880 


Y  dear  Mother, — We 
have  taken  the  Fant 
House  for  this  winter. 
People  say  it  is  haunted. 
As  yet  we  have  not  seen 
any  ghosts,  nor  found 
any  skeletons  in  the 
closets.  The  possible  ghosts  have  no 
terrors  for  me.  On  the  contrary,  I  should 
love  to  meet  one  face  to  face!  But  the 
rats  are  plentiful  and  have  probably 
played  ghosts'  parts  and  given  the  house 
its  reputation.  Those  we  have  here  are 
so  bold  and  assertive  that  I  have  become 
quite  accustomed  to  them.  I  meet  them 
on  the  staircase,  and  they  politely  wait 
for  me  to  pass.  One  old  fellow— I  call 
him  Alcibiades,  because  he  is  so  auda- 
cious— actually  gnaws  at  our  door,  as  if 
begging  to  be  allowed  to  come  in  and 
join  us.  We  put  poison  in  every  attrac- 
tive way  we  can  think  of  all  about,  but 
they  seem  to  like  it  and  thrive  upon  it. 
Johan,  having  had  a  Danish  sailor  rec- 
ommended to  him,  allows  him  to  live 
in  a  room  up-stairs  and  to  help  a  little 
in  the  house  while  waiting  for  a  boat. 
He  is  very  masterful  in  his  movements, 
and  handles  the  crockery  as  if  it  were 
buckets  of  water,  and  draws  back  the 
portieres  as  if  he  were  hauling  at  the 
main-sheet. 

Mr.  Robeson  (Secretary  of  the  Navy), 
who  ought  to  know  le  dernier  cri  on  the 
subject  of  the  habits  of  rats,  told  us  that 
the  only  way  to  get  rid  of  them  was  to 
catch  one  and  dress  him  up  in  a  jacket 
and  trousers  —  red  preferable — tie  a 
bell  round  his  neck,  and  let  him  loose. 
"Then,"  he  said,  "the  rat  would  run 
about  among  his  companions  and  indi- 
cate the  pressure  brought  upon  rats,  and 
soon  there  would  not  be  one  left  in  the 
house. 

This  was  an  idyl  for  our  sailor.  He 
spent  most  of  his  days  making  a  iacket 


with  which  to  clothe  the  rat,  and  actu- 
ally did  catch  one  (I  hoped  he  was  not 
my  friend  of  the  staircase)  and  pro- 
ceeded to  put  him  into  this  sailor-made 
costume,  which  was  not  an  easy  thing 
to  do,  and  had  he  not  been  accustomed 
to  bracing  up  stays  and  other  nautical 
work  he  never  could  have  accomplished 
the  thing.  However,  he  did  accomplish 
it;  he  tied  the  bell  on  the  rat's  neck  and 
let  him  loose. 

The  remedy  (though  uttered  from  an 
official  mouth  for  which  we  have  great 
respect)  was  worse  than  the  evil.  The 
rat  refused  to  run  about  to  warn  his 
friends.  On  the  contrary,  he  would  not 
move,  but  looked  imploringly  into  the 
eyes  of  his  tormentor,  as  if  begging  to  be 
allowed  to  die  in  his  normal  skin.  Then, 
I  believe,  he  went  and  sulked  in  a  corner 
and  committed  suicide — he  was  so  morti- 
fied. We  said  one  rat  in  a  corner  was 
worse  than  twelve  on  the  staircase. 

The  Outreys  (the  French  Minister) 
had  their  diplomatic  reception,  and  sent 
cards  to  every  one  they  knew,  and  many 
they  did  not  know.  The  ladies  who  went 
expected  Madame  Outrey  to  be  dressed 
in  the  latest  fashion;  being  the  wife  of 
the  French  Minister,  it  was  her  duty  to 
let  society  into  the  secrets  of  Parisian 
"modes,"  but  she  was  dressed  in  a 
simple,  might-have-been-made-at-home 
black  gown.  This  exasperated  the  ladies 
(who  had  gone  with  an  eye  to  copying) 
to  such  a  degree  that  many  went  home 
with  pent-up  and  wounded  feelings,  as 
if  they  had  been  defrauded  of  their 
rights,  and  without  supper — which,  had 
they  stayed,  they  would  have  found  to 
be  the  latest  thing  in  suppers. 

Washington. 
The  grass  on   our  small   plot  has 
reached  the  last  limit  of  endurance  and 
greenness,  and  is  sprouting  weeds  at  a 


A  DIPLOMATS  WIFE  IN  WASHINGTON 


105 


great  rate;  also  our  one  bush,  though 
still  full  of  chirpiness,  is  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  depression. 

We  were  invited  to  a  spiritualistic 
seance  at  the  L  's  salon.  The  Em- 
press Josephine  has  consented  to  material- 
ize in  America  after  having  visited  the 
Continent.  We 


saw 


and 


ier, 

more  unempress- 
looking  empress  I 
cannot  imagine. 
To  convince  a 
skeptic  she  dis- 
played her  leg  to 
show  how  well  it 
had  succeeded  in 
taking  on  flesh. 
I  have  no  pa- 
tience with  peo- 
ple who  believe 
such  nonsense. 
The  famous  spir- 
itualist Foster  is 
also  here  in  Wash- 
ington.  He  is 
clever  in  a  way, 
and  has  made 
many  converts 
simply  by  putting 
two  and  two  to- 
gether. We  went, 
of  course,  to  see 
him,  and  came 
away  astounded, 

but  not  convinced.  He  produced  a 
slate  on  which  were  written  some 
wonderful  things  about  a  ring  which 
had  a  history  in  J.'s  family.  J. 
could  not  imagine  how  any  one  could 
have  known  it.  Foster  said  to  me: 
"I  had  a  premonition  that  you  were 
coming  to-day.  See!"  and  he  pulled 
up  his  sleeve  and  there  stood  "Lillie," 
written  in  what  appeared  to  be  my 
handwriting  in  gore,  I  suppose  —  it 
was  red.  I  urged  Baron  Bildt  to  go 
and  see  him,  knowing  that  he  liked  that 
sort  of  thing.  The  moment  he  appeared, 
Foster,  smelling  a  diplo-rat,  said,  "Ma- 
dame Hegermann  sent  you  to  me,"  upon 
which  Baron  Bildt  succumbed  instantly. 

Teresa  Carreno,  the  Wunderkind,  now 
a  W undermiidchen,  having  arrived  at  the 
age  when  she  wisely  puts  up  her  hair  and 
lets  down  her  dresses,  is  on  a  concert 
tour  with  Wilhelmj  (the  famous  violin- 


Mrs.  Rutherford  B.  Hayes 


ist).  He  is  not  as  good  as  Wieniawski, 
and  can't  be  named  in  the  same  breath 
with  Ole  Bull.  They  came  here  to  lunch, 
together  with  Schlozer,  who  brought  the 
violin.  I  invited  a  good  many  people  to 
come  in  the  afternoon — among  others, 
Aristarchi,   who  looks  very  absorbed 

when  music  is 
going  on,  but  with 
him  it  means  abso- 
lutely nothing,  be- 
cause he  is  a  lit- 
tle deaf,  but  looks 
eager  in  order  to 
seize  other  peo- 
ple's impressions. 

Wilhelmj  play- 
ed, and  Teresa 
Carreno  played, 
and  I  sang  a  song 
of  Wilhelmj '  s 
from  the  manu- 
script. He  said, 
"You  sing  it  as 
if  you  had  dream- 
ed it."  I  thought 
if  I  had  dreamed 
it  I  should  have 
d  reamed  of  a 
patchwork  quilt, 
there  were  so 
many  flats  and 
sharps.  My  eyes 
and  brain  ached. 
After  a  good 
deal  of  music  Wilhelmj  sank  in  a 
chair  and  said,  "I  can  no  more!"  and 
fell  to  talking  about  his  wines.  He  is 
not  only  a  violinist,  but  is  a  wine  mer- 
chant. Schlozer  and  J.  naturally  gave 
him  some  large  orders. 

Washington  is  very  gay,  humming  like 
a  top.    Everything  is  going  on  at  once. 

The  daily  receptions  I  find  the  most 
tiresome  things,  they  are  so  monotonous. 
Women  crowd  in  the  salons,  shake  hands, 
leave  a  pile  of  cards  on  the  tray  in  the 
hall,  and  flit  to  other  spheres. 

At  a  dinner  at  Senator  Chandler's  Mr. 
Blaine  took  me  in,  and  Eugene  Hale, 
a  Congressman,  sat  on  the  other  side. 
They  call  him  "  Blaine's  little  boy."  He 
was  very  amusing  on  the  subject  of  Alex- 
ander Agassiz  (the  pioneer  of  my  youth- 
ful studies,  under  whose  ironical  eye  I 
used  to  read  Schiller),  who  is  just  now 
being  lionized,  and  is  lecturing  on  the 


106 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


National  History  of  the  Peruvians.  Agas- 
siz  has  become  a  millionaire,  not  from 
the  proceeds  of  his  brain,  but  from  cop- 
per-mines (Calumet  and  Hecla).  How 
his  dear  old  father  would  have  liked  to 
possess  some  of  his  millions. 

Mr.  Otho  Williams  told  us  how  they 
shoot  canvasback  and  redhead  ducks 
in  Maryland.  Perhaps  all  ducks  are  shot 
in  this  way,  and  I  may  not  be  telling 
you  anything  new.  The  sportsman  lies 
flat  on  his  back  in  a  sort  of  coffin,  which 
has  boards  on  the  sides  to  keep  it  afloat. 
When  the  decoy  bird  has  done  its  duty 
in  attracting  the  ducks  to  the  spot,  the 
shot  seems  to  come  up  straight  from  the 
surface  of  the  water,  as  the  man  is 
entirely  invisible.  The  redhead  duck  is 
a  kind  of  caterer  for  the  canvasback. 
They  pick  out  of  the  marshes  the  wild 


Ole  Bull 

The  famous  Norwegian  virtuoso  as  he 
looked  during  his  residence  in  Cambridge 


celery,  and  then  the  canvasback  comes 
and  eats  it  up  without  a  word  of  thanks. 
Selfish  bird!  It  is  this  celery  that  gives 
the  extra-fine  taste  to  the  duck. 

We  also  went  to  a  matinee  to  hear 
Madame  Gerster  sing  in  "Faust."  She 
sings  well,  but  lacks  something — mag- 
netism, perhaps. 

Sam  Ward  is  the  diner-out  par  excel- 
lence here,  and  is  the  king  of  the  lobby 
par  preference.  When  you  want  anything 
pushed  through  Congress  you  have  only 
to  apply  to  Sam  Ward  and  it  is  done. 
I  don't  know  whether  he  accomplishes 
what  he  undertakes  by  money  or  persua- 
sion; it  must  be  the  latter,  for  I  think 
he  is  far  from  being  a  rich  man.  His 
lobbyism  is  mostly  done  at  the  dinner- 
table.  He  is  a  most  delightful  talker  and 
full  of  anecdotes. 

Mrs.  Robeson's  "Sun- 
day evenings"  are  very 
popular.  She  has  given 
up  singing  and  does  not 
— thank  Heaven! — have 
any  music.  She  thinks 
it  prevents  people  from 
talking  (sometimes  it 
does,  and  sometimes  it 
has  the  contrary  effect). 
She  prefers  the  talking, 
in  which  she  takes  the 
most  active  part.  Mr. 
Robeson  is  the  most  ami- 
able of  hosts,  beams  and 
laughs  a  great  deal. 

The  enfant  terrible 
is  quoted  incessantly. 
She  must  be  overwhelm- 
ingly amusing.  She  said 
to  her  mother  when  she 
saw  her  in  evening  dress: 
"Mamma,  pull  up  your 
collar.  You  must  not 
show  your  stomach- 
ache!" Everything  in 
anatomy  lower  than  the 
throat  she  calls  "stom- 
achache"— the  fountain 
of  all  her  woes,  I  sup- 
pose. 

Mr.  Blaine  and  Mr. 
Robeson,  supplemented 
by  General  Schenck,  are 
great  poker-players. 
They  are  continually 
talking  about  the  game, 


A  DIPLOMAT'S  WIFE  IN  WASHINGTON 


107 


when  they  ought  to  be  talking  politics 
for  the  benefit  of  foreigners.  You  hear 
this  sort  of  thing,  "Well,  you  couldn't 
beat  my  full  house,"  at  which  the  diplo- 
mats prick  up  their  ears,  thinking  that 
there  will  be  something  wonderful  in  Con- 
gress the  next  day,  and  decide  to  go  there. 

Mr.  Brooks,  of 
Cambridge,  made 
his  Fourth-of-July 
oration  at  our 
soiree  on  Thurs- 
day. This  is  the 
funniest  thing  I 
have  ever  heard. 
Mr.  Evarts  al- 
most rolled  ofFhis 
seat.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a 
speech  made  at  a 
Paris  fete  on  the 
Fourth  of  July, 
where  every 
speaker  got  more 
patriotic  as  the 
evening  went  on. 
The  last  speech 
was  the  climax: 

"I  propose  the 
toast,  6  The  United 
States!1 — bordered 
on  the north  by the 
aurora  borealis; 
on  the  east  by  the 
rising  sun;  on  the 
west  by  the  proces- 
sion of  equinoxes; 
and  on  the  south 
by  eternal  chaos!" 


Teresa  Carreno 

The  eminent  Venezuelan  pianist 
during  one  of  her  American  tours 


My  dear  Aunt,- 


Washington,  1877. 
-You  want  to  know 


who  we  are  going  to  have  as  President. 
It  looks  now  as  if  we  were  going  to  have 
two.  People  about  me  say  that  Tilden 
has  really  had  the  most  votes,  but  the 
electoral  commission  has  decided  that 
Hayes  is  elected.  The  Democrats  seem 
to  take  it  kindly  and  do  not  make  any 
difficulties,  though  at  one  time,  Johan 
says,  it  looked  very  stormy. 

I  hear  enough  about  the  elections, 
goodness  knows,  and  ought  to  be  able 
to  tell  you  something.  Washington  is 
flooded  with  people  who  want  to  curry 
favor  with  the  "powers  that  be." 

Our  friends  the  X  's  (you  remem- 
ber them  from  Paris)  are  here  pour  cause. 


They  took  a  house  and  gave  fine  dinners, 
made  by  French  chefs,  and  invited  the 
members  of  the  contending  parties  to- 
gether. 

Politics  to  Mr.  X  is  like  a  mill- 
pond  to  a  duck.  He  doesn't  care  what 
the  water  is  as  long  as  he  is  in  it.  At 

one  of  their  din- 
ners, in  a  lull  in  the 
conversation,  Mr. 

X          was  heard 

to  say  to  his  neigh- 
bor (the  wife  of  a 
prominent  Repub- 
lican), "I  hope  to 
see  Mr.  Hayes  in 
the  White  House," 

while  Mrs.  X  

was  purring  in  the 
earof a  Democrat, 
"All  our  sympa- 
thies are  for  Mr. 
Tilden." 

But  the  worst, 
which  wounded 
the  feelings  of  so- 
ciety to  the  quick, 
was  that  at  a 
soiree  dramatique. 
They  stretched  a 
large  blue  ribbon 
across  the  room, 
indicating  that 
only  a  chosen  few 
— the  influential 
Americans  and  the 
diplomats — would 
have  the  privilege 
of  sitting  in  the 
front  rows.  Every  one  thought  it  ex- 
tremely bad  taste,  and  it  cost  them  the 
longed-for  legation. 

Cambridge. 

Ole  Bull  (the  great  violinist)  has  taken 
James  Russell  Lowell's  house  in  Cam- 
bridge. He  is  remarried,  and  lives  here 
with  his  wife  and  daughter.  He  has  a 
magnificent  head,  and  that  broad,  ex- 
pansive smile  which  seems  to  belong  to 
geniuses.    Liszt  had  one  like  it. 

He  and  Mrs.  Bull  come  here  often 
on  Sunday  evenings,  and  sometimes  he 
brings  his  violin.  Mrs.  B.  accompanies 
him,  and  he  plays  divinely.  There  is  no 
violinist  on  earth  that  can  compare  with 
him.    There  may  be  many  who  have  as 


vol.  cxxviii. — no.  763. — 14 


108 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


brilliant  a  technique,  but  none  who  has 
his  feu  sacre  and  the  tremendous  mag- 
netism which  creates  such  enthusiasm 
that  you  are  carried  away.  The  sterner 
sex  pretend  that  they  can  resist  him, 
but  certainly  no  woman  can. 

He  is  very  proud  of  showing  the  dia- 
mond in  his  bow,  which  was  given  to  him 
by  the  King  of  Sweden. 

He  loves  to  tell  the  story  of  King 
Frederick  VII.  of  Denmark,  who  said  to 
him:  "Where  did  you  learn  to  play  the 
violin?    Who  was  your  teacher?" 

Ole  Bull  answered,  "Your  Majesty, 
the  pine  forests  of  Norway  and  the  beau- 
tiful fjords  taught  me!" 

The  King,  who  had  no  feeling  for  such 
high-flown  sentiments,  turned  to  one 
of  his  aides-de-camp  and  said  "  Sikken 
vrovl!" — the  Danish  for" What  rubbish!'' 

Mr.  John  Owen  (Mr.  Longfellow's 
shadow)  swoops  down  on  us  occasionally 
on  the  wings  of  poesy.  I  don't  always 
comprehend  the  poesy,  and  sometimes 
would  like  to  cut  the  wings,  but  Owen 
can't  be  stopped.  Every  event  is  trans- 
lated into  verse,  even  my  going  to  New- 


port by  the  ten-o'clock  train,  which 
sounds  prosy  enough,  inspires  him,  and 
the  next  morning  he  comes  in  with  a 
poem.  Then  we  see  it  in  the  Boston 
Advertiser,  evening  edition. 

Washington,  -March,  i8yy. 
Now  that  President  and  Mrs.  Hayes 
are  settled  in  the  White  House,  quarrels 
are  ended  and  peace  reigns  supreme  in 
the  capital.  We  went  the  day  before 
yesterday,  at  half-past  ten,  to  the  Capi- 
tol;. Johan,  in  full  gala  uniform  (looking 
like  a  blooming  flamingo),  went  on  the 
Senate  floor  with  the  other  diplomats. 
We  ladies  sat  in  the  diplomatic  box  with 
Mrs.  Hayes.  Before  the  end  of  the  cere- 
mony inside  we  went  to  the  spectacle 
outside,  where  we  sat  on  the  platform 
with  Mrs.  Hayes.  The  President  made 
his  speech  in  a  very  dignified  and  quiet 
manner.  Then  we  went  to  the  other 
side  of  the  capital  to  see  the  procession. 
The  new  President,  midst  booming  of 
cannons,  hurrahs,  and  much  waving  of 
handkerchiefs,  drove  away  in  his  landau 
and  four  horses.    The  streets  were  lined 


-  -  i 


President  Hayes  and  his  Cabinet 
From  "  Harper's  Weekly,"  April  5,  1879 


A  DIPLOMAT'S  WIFE  IN  WASHINGTON 


109 


with  people  all  the  way  down  the 
Avenue. 

The  Diplomatic  Corps  is  going  to  be 
presented  all  together  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. 

Every  one  likes  Mr.  Hayes,  who  is  a 
good  and  worthy  gentleman,  and  Mrs. 
Hayes,  who  is  a 
gentle  and  very 
pleasant  lady. 
People  think  Mrs. 
Hayes  unwise  in 
making  the  White 
House  a  temple  of 
temperance.  It 
does  not  do  her 
any  harm,  but  it 
puts  the  President 
in  a  false  light. 
But  that  is  their 
affair. 


Thomas 
United  States  Senator 


Washington. 
The  long, 
balmy  days  of 
May  suggested  a 
picnic.  It  was  a 
beautiful  scheme, 
and  all  the  diplo- 
mats jumped  at  it 
as  one  man.  The 
place  selected  was, 
of  course,  Mount 
Vernon.  We  met 
at  the  wharf 
where  the  steamer 
was  waiting  for 
us.   The  first  view 

of  the  stately  Colonial  mansion  with 
its  high  portico  impressed  us  very 
much.  I  had  never  before  seen  this 
historical  shrine  so  dear  to  American 
hearts.  We  toiled  up  the  slope  of  the 
extensive  lawn  which  spreads  from 
the  front  of  the  house  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  I  tried  to  picture  to  my- 
self the  great  George  walking  up  and 
down  under  the  colonnade,  working  out 
national  laws  and  systems,  and  the  sweet 
Martha,  with  her  frilled  cap  and  benign 
smile,  looking  toward  the  setting  sun  in 
the  glow-light.  Many  of  the  diplomats 
looked  about  them,  hoping  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  cherry-tree. 

Senator  Bayard,  who  came  with  his 
daughters,  helped  to  unpack  the  baskets, 
which  contained,  like  all  picnic  meals, 


too  many  things  of  one  kind,  like  ham 
and  cakes  and  preserves,  and  hardly 
bread  enough  to  speak  about.  How- 
ever, we  enjoyed  ourselves  immensely, 
as  people  will  do. 

I  said  to  Mr.  Bayard,  "I  feel  as  if  I 
had  known  George  Washington  person- 
ally." 

"How  is  that?" 
asked  Mr.  Bay- 
ard. 

"Because,"  I 
replied,  "just  a 
hundred  years  ago 
he  took  lunch  in 
our  house  in  Cam- 
bridge, before  tak- 
ing command  of 
the  army." 

"Really?"  said 
Mr.  Bayard,  "I 
thought  it  was 
in  Longfellow's 
house." 

"No,"  I  said. 
"His  headquar- 
ters were  at  Mr. 
Longfellow's,  but 
he  really  did  take 
his  luncheon  at 
our  house.  How 
could  I  speak  an 
untruth  on  this 
truthful  lawn! 
You  see  I  know 
for  sure,  because 
my  great-great- 
uncle  sang  an  ode 
during  the  luncheon.  It  is  one  of  the 
treasured  annals  of  our  family.  That 
uncle  was  the  only  relative  known  to  be 
musical." 

"Which  did  General  Washington  take 
first,  the  luncheon  or  the  army?"  Mr. 
Bayard  asked,  laughing. 

"It  must  have  been  the  luncheon. 
The  army  was  probably  waiting  on 
the  Common  to  be  taken  command 
or. 

We  were  interrupted  by  Mr.  G  

with  even  less  tact  than  usual.  "I 
thought  you  were  discussing  the  Consti- 
tution," he  said. 

"We  were,"  I  said.  "Mine!  I  told 
Mr.  Bayard  that  my  health  was  under- 
mined each  Fourth  of  July  I  spent  in 
Cambridge.    I  was  kept  awake  all  night 


F.  Bayard 

from  Delaware,  1869-85 


110 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


by  fireworks  and  patriotic  guns  and  bat- 
teries. 

"It  must  be  very  trying." 

"It  is  killing!"  I  said.  "I  am  obliged 
to  go  into  the  garden  in  the  early  morn, 
and  bail  out  dipperfuls  of  water  to 
thirsty  members  of  guilds  and  societies, 
who  have  tramp- 
ed out  from  Bos- 
ton covered  with 
badges  and  sashes. 
After  drinking 
the  water  they 
shed  their  em- 
blems, and  cool 
off  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves, and  sing 
patriotic  songs." 

Cambridge. 
A  Dane,  a  friend 
of  Johan's,  who 
had  come  to 
America  to  write 
a  book  on  Ameri- 
can institutions, 
asked  the  consul 
to  find  him  a  quiet 
boarding-house  in 
a  quiet  street. 
The  consul  knew 
of  exactly  such  a 
retreat,  and  di 
rected  the  Pro- 
fessor to  the  place. 
It  was  not  far 
from  the  Revere 
House.  He  arrived 

there  in  the  evening,  unpacked  his  treas- 
ures, congratulating  himself  on  his  cozy 
quarters  and  his  nice  landlady,  who  ask- 
ed such  a  modest  price  that  he  jumped 
at  it. 

The  next  morning,  at  four  o'clock,  he 
was  awakened  by  a  strange  noise,  the 
like  of  which  he  had  never  heard  outside 
a  zoological  garden.  At  first  he  thought 
he  was  still  dreaming,  and  turned  over 
to  sleep  again,  but  the  noise  repeated 
itself.  This  time  it  seemed  to  come  from 
under  his  bed,  and  sounded  like  a 
lion's  roar.  Probably  a  circus  had  passed 
and  a  lion  had  got  loose  and  was  prowl- 
ing about  seeking  what  he  could  devour! 
He  thought  of  ringing  up  the  house,  but 
demurred,  reflecting  that  whoever  an- 
swered the  bell  would  probably  be  the 


Carl  Schurz 
Secretary  of  the  Interior  under  President  Hayes 


first  victim.  Again  the  roar!  Fear  over- 
came his  humane  impulses;  he  rang, 
hoping  that  if  the  lion's  appetite  was  ap- 
peased by  the  first  victim,  he  might  be 
spared. 

The  landlady  appeared  in  the  flesh, 
calmly  and  quietly.     "Did  you  ring, 

sir?"  she  asked, 
placidly. 

"I  did  indeed," 
he  answered. 
"Will  you  kindly 
tell  me  whether  I 
am  awake  or 
asleep?  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  heard 
the  roar  of  a  lion. 
Did  no  one  else 
hear  it?" 

The  landlady 
hesitated,  embar- 
rassed, and  an- 
swered, "I  did,  sir 
— you  and  I  are 
the  only  persons 
in  the  house." 

"Then  the  lion 
is  waiting  for  us?" 
he  said,  quaking 
in  his  slippers. 

''I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,"  the 
woman  answered. 
"I  had  hoped  that 
you  had  not  no- 
ticed anything — " 
"Good  gra- 
cious!"   he  said, 
"do  you  think  I  can  be  in  the  house  with 
a  roaring  lion  and  not  notice  anything?" 

"He  happens  to  be  hungry  this  morn- 
ing, and  nothing  will  keep  him  quiet," 
said  the  kind  lady,  as  if  she  were  talking 
of  her  kitten. 

"Madam,"  screamed  the  infuriated 
Dane,  "one  of  us  is  certainly  going  mad! 
When  I  tell  you  that  there  is  a  lion 
roaming   over  your  house  you  stand 

there  quietly  and  tell  me  that  he  is  bun- 
s'' 

gry?  ; 

"If  you  will  wait  a  moment,  sir,  I  will 
explain." 

"No  explanation  is  needed,  madam. 
If  I  can  get  out  of  this  house  alive  I 
will  meet  you  in  some  other  un-lion- 
visited  part  of  Boston  and  pay  you." 
And  he  added,  with  great  sarcasm, "  He  is 


A  DIPLOMAT'S  WIFE  IN  WASHINGTON 


111 


probably  a  pet  of  yours,  and  your  ex- 
boarders  have  furnished  his  meals. " 

Instead  of  being  shocked  at  this,  the 
gentle  landlady's  eyes  beamed  with  con- 
tent. "That's  just  it — he  is  a  pet  of 
mine  and  he  lives  in  the  back  parlor." 

"The  lion  is  here  in  your  back  parlor, 
and  you  have  the 
face  to  keep  board- 
ers?" shrieked  the 
Dane. 

"My  other 
boarders  have  left 
me." 

"I  should  think 
so,  and  this  one  is 
going  to  do  like- 
wise, and  without 
delay  "  —  begin- 
ning to  put  his 
things  in  his  bag. 

She  said  she  was 
sorry  he  thought 
of  going,  but  she 
could  understand 
he  was  nervous. 

Nervous!  If  he 
could  have  given 
his  feelings  words 
he  would  have 
said  that  never  in 
all  his  life  had  he 
been  so  scared. 

The  meek  lady 
before  him 
watched  him  while 
he  was  making  up 
his  packages  and 

his  mind.  What  he  made  up  was  his 
reluctance  to  flee  from  danger  and  leave 
the  lion-hearted  little  woman  alone. 

"I  will  not  go,"  he  said,  in  the  voice 
of  an  early  Christian  martyr. 

"You  see,  sir,  this  is  how  it  hap- 
pened," began  the  woman.  "A  very 
nice  sailor  came  to  board  here,  but  could 
not  pay  his  bill,  so  to  settle  with  me  he 
offered  me  his  pet  dog.  I  thought  it  a 
puppy,  and  as  I  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
the  little  thing — he  used  to  drink  milk 
with  the  cat  out  of  the  same  saucer — 
I  consented  to  keep  it." 

"And  he  turned  out  to  be  a  lion? 
How  did  you  first  notice  it?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  soon  saw  he  attracted 
attention  in  the  street.  He  wanted  to 
fight  all  the  other  animals,  and  attacked 


Ferdinand 
Initiator  of  the 


everything  from  a  horse  to  a  milk-pan. 
It  was  when  I  was  giving  him  a  bath 
that  I  noticed  that  his  tail  was  begin- 
ning to  bunch  out  at  the  end  and  his 
under-jaw  was  growing  pointed.  Then 
the  awful  thought  came  to  me — it  was 
not  a  dog,  but  a  lion!  This  was  a  dread- 
ful moment,  for  I 
loved  him,  and  he 
was  fond  of  me, 
and  I  could  not 
part  with  him.  He 
grew  and  grew — 
his  body  length- 
ened out  and  his 
paws  became 
enormous,  and  his 
shaggy  hair  cov- 
ered his  head.  But 
it  was  when  he 
tried  to  get  up  in 
my  lap,  and  be- 
came angry  be- 
cause my  lap  was 
not  big  enough  to 
hold  him,  that  he 
growled  so  that  I 
became  afraid. 
Then  I  had  bars 
put  up  before  the 
door  of  my  back 
parlor,  which  was 
my  former  dining- 
room,  and  I  keep 
him  there." 

"Do  you  feed 
him  yourself?" 
"Yes,  sir,  but  it 
takes  a  fortune  to  keep  him  in  meat." 

"How  old  do  you  think  he  is?"  the 
Dane  asked,  beginning  now  to  feel  a  re- 
spectful admiration  for  the  lone  woman 
who  preferred  to  give  up  boarders  rather 
than  give  up  her  companion. 

"That  I  do  not  know,"  she  replied, 
"but  from  his  size  and  voice  I  should  say 
he  was  full-grown." 

"I  can  vouch  for  his  voice.  Will  you 
show  him  to  me?"  He  had  never  seen  a 
lion  boarding  in  a  back  parlor,  and 
rather  fancied  the  novelty.  He  told  the 
consul  afterward  that  he  had  never  seen 
a  finer  specimen  of  the  Bengal  lion.  To 
his  mistress  he  was  obedient  and  meek 
as  a  lamb.  She  could  do  anvthing  she 
liked  with  him;  she  passed  her  hand 
lovingly  over  his  great  head,  caressing 


DE  LESSEPS 

Panama  Canal 


112 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


his  tawny  locks,  while  the  lion  looked  at 
her  with  soft  and  tender  eyes,  and  stuck 
out  his  enormous  tongue  to  lick  her 
hand. 

The  Dane  stayed  on,  like  the  good 
man  he  was.  He  had  not  the  heart  to 
deprive  the  little  woman  of  the  few  dol- 
lars he  paid  for  his  room,  which  would 
go  toward  buying  food  for  her  pet.  He 
himself  became  very  fond  of  "Leo,"  and 
would  surreptitiously  spend  all  his  spare 
money  at  the  butcher's,  who  must  have 
wondered,  when  he  sent  the  quarters  of 
beef,  how  such  a  small  family  could  con- 
sume so  much — and  the  Dane  would 
pass  hours  feeding  the  lion  with  tidbits 
held  on  the  end  of  his  umbrella. 

We  were  told  afterward  that  the  police 
discovered  that  the  noises  coming  from 
the  house  were  not  the  usual  Boston 
east  winds,  and,  having  found  out  from 
what  they  proceeded,  suggested  that  the 
Zoological  Gardens  should  buy  the  ani- 
mal, for  which  they  paid  an  enormous 
price.  So  the  sailor  did  pay  his  debt, 
after  all! 

Washington,  i8yg. 
Mr.  Schurz  (the  Secretary  of  the  Inte- 
rior) was  to  receive  a  conclave  of  Ind- 
ians, and  could  not  refuse  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, Miss  Chapman,  and  myself  when 
we  begged  to  be  present  at  the  interview. 
They  came  to  make  some  contracts.  The 
interpreter,  or  agent,  or  whatever  he 
was,  who  had  them  in  charge  proposed 
to  dress  them  suitably  for  the  occasion, 
but  when  he  heard  there  were  to  be 
ladies  present  he  added  colored  and 
striped  shirts,  which  the  Indians  insisted 
upon  wearing  over  their  embroidered 
buckskin  trousers.  They  caused  a  sen- 
sation as  they,  came  out  of  the  clothes- 
shop.  They  had  feather  head-dresses 
and  braids  of  hair  hanging  down  by  the 
sides  of  their  brown  cheeks.  They  wore 
bracelets  on  their  bare  arms,  and  blan- 
kets over  their  shoulders.  They  sat  in 
a  semicircle  around  Mr.  Schurz.  After 
Mr.  Schurz  had  heard  what  the  inter- 
preter had  to  say,  he  and  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  committee  (they  call  them 
>  undershirts")  talked  together  for  a 
while  and  Mr.  Schurz  said,  "I  cannot 
accept,"  which  was  translated  to  the 
chief,  who  looked  more  sullen  and  treach- 
erous than  before.    Then  there  was  a 


burst  of  wild  Indian,  and  the  chief  held 
forth  in  a  deep  bass  voice,  I  fancy  giving 
pieces  of  his  mind  to  Mr.  Schurz,  which 
were  translated  in  a  milder  form.  Mrs. 
Lawrence,  who  looks  at  everything  in 
a  rosy,  sentimental  light,  thought  they 
looked  high-spirited  and  noble.  I,  who 
am  prosaic  to  my  finger-tips,  thought 
they  looked  conceited,  brutal,  and  obsti- 
nate. They  all  sat  with  their  tomahawks 
laid  by  the  side  of  their  chairs.  The 
chief  was  not  insensible  to  the  beauty  of 
Miss  Chapman,  and  sat  behind  his  out- 
spread fingers  gazing  at  her  and  her  jew- 
elry. We  were  glad  to  get  away  from 
the  barbarous-looking  people.  All  the 
same,  the  interview  was  very  interesting. 

General  and  Mrs.  Albert  Meyer  gave 
a  dinner  in  honor  of  the  President  and 
Mrs.  Hayes,  to  which  some  diplomats 
were  invited.  You  know  Mr.  Meyer  is 
the  man  called  "Old  Prob,"  because  he 
tells  one  beforehand  what  weather  one 
can  expect  for  the  next  picnic. 

This  was  the  first  dinner  that  the 
Presidential  couple  had  gone  to,  and  we 
were  a  little  curious  to  see  how  it  would 
be  managed.  As  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs. 
Hayes  drink  wine,  they  were  served  all 
the  different  known  brands  of  mineral 
waters,  milk,  and  tea.  But  the  others  got 
wine.  Mr.  Meyer  was  very  funny  when 
he  took  up  his  glass,  looked  at  it  criti- 
cally, and  said,  "I  recommend  this  vin- 
tage." The  President  did  not  seem  to 
mind  these  plaisanteries.  We  were  curi- 
ous to  see  what  they  would  do  when 
Punch  a  la  Romaine,  which  stood  on 
the  menu  in  a  little  paragraph  by  itself, 
would  be  served.  It  was  a  rather  strong 
punch  (too  strong  for  any  of  the  diplo- 
mats) and  the  glasses  were  deep,  but 
they  seemed  to  enjoy  this  glimpse  into 
the  depths  of  perdition  and  did  not 
leave  a  mouthful.  Taking  it,  you  see, 
with  a  spoon,  made  a  difference. 

The  Lesseps  were  among  the  guests. 
There  are  thirteen  little  Lesseps  some- 
where; only  one  daughter  is  with  them. 
Monsieur  Lesseps  is  twenty-five  years 
older  than  Madame,  if  not  more.  When 
the  three  came  in  the  salon,  young  Miss 
Bayard  said,  "The  girl  is  taking  her 
mother  and  grandfather  into  society." 

A  weird  menu  was  at  the  side  of  each 
plate;  it  was  in  French — on  account,  I 


A  WINTER  REVERIE 


113 


suppose,  of  the  Lesseps.  One  of  the 
items  was  V estomac  de  dinde  a  V  ambas- 
sadrice,  pommes  sautees.  Mr.  John  Hay, 
who  sat  next  to  me,  remarked,  ironically, 
"Why  do  they  not  write  their  menu  in 
plain  English?" 

"I  think,"  I  answered,  "that  it  is 
better  in  French.  How  would  6  turkey 
to  an  ambassadress's  stomach,'  or 
6 jumped  potatoes,'  sound?" 

He  could  find  no  answer  to  this. 

Madame  Lesseps  confided  to  me  in  our 
coffee-cups  that  she  and  her  husband 
were  in  "Vasheengton  en  tpuristes,  mais 
aussi,  Us  avaient  des  affaires."  The  af- 
faires are  no  less  than  the  Panama  Canal. 

Washington. 
The  question  of  the  annual  diner 
diplomatique  was  cleverly  managed  by 
Mr.  Evarts.  Mr.  Hayes  wanted  to  sup- 
press wine  and  give  tea  and  mineral 
water,  but  Mr.  Evarts  put  his  foot  down. 
He  said  that  the  diplomats  would  not 
understand  an  official  dinner  without 
wine,  and  proposed  instead  a  soiree  musi- 
cale,  in  other  words,  a  rout.  The  diplo- 
mats had  a  separate  entrance  (a  novelty) 
from  the  garden  side.  There  was  an 
orchestra  at  the  end  of  the  "blue  room" 
which  drowned  conversation  when  you 


were  near  it.  I  noticed  that  most  of  the 
young  ladies  found  it  too  near,  and 
sought  other  corners. 

The  supper  ne  laissait  rien  a  desirer, 
and  there  was  a  sumptuous  buffet  open 
the  whole  evening;  punch-bowls  filled 
with  lemonade  were  placed  in  the  differ- 
ent salons.  On  the  whole  it  was  a  great 
success. 

I  think  that  the  teetotality  of  the 
White  House  displeases  as  much  our 
country-people  as  it  does  the  foreigners. 
At  one  of  our  musical  parties  Mr.  Blaine 
came  rather  late,  and,  clapping  his  hands 
on  Johan's  shoulder,  said,  "My  kingdom 
for  a  glass  of  whiskey;  I  have  just  dined 
at  the  White  House."  Others  call  the 
White  House  dinners  "the  life-saving 
station." 

Mrs.  Hayes  was  very  nice  to  me.  She 
sent  me  a  magnificent  basket  of  what 
she  called  "specimen  flowers,"  which 
were  superb  orchids  and  begonias.  On 
her  card  was  written,  "Thanking  you 
again  for  the  pleasure  you  gave  me  by 
your  singing." 

Washington,  1880. 
Johan  is  appointed  to  Rome.  We 
leave  Washington  and  our  many  good 
friends  with  regret  and  sorrow. 


A  Winter  Reverie 

BY  JAMES  STEPHENS 

I SAW  the  moon  so  broad  and  bright 
Sailing  high  on  a  frosty  night: 

And  the  air  swung  far  and  far  between 
The  silver  disk  and  the  orb  of  green: 

And  here  and  there  a  wisp  of  white 
Cloud-film  swam  on  the  misty  light: 

And  crusted  thickly  on  the  sky, 
High  and  higher  and  yet  more  high, 

Were  golden  star-points,  dusted  through 
The  great,  wide,  silent  vault  of  blue. 

Then  I  bethought  me  God  was  great 
And  the  world  was  fair,  and  so,  elate, 

I  knelt  me  down  and  bent  my  head, 
And  said  my  prayers  and  went  to  bed. 


Li 


The  Toys'  Little  Day" 


BY  GEORGIA   WOOD  PANGBORN 


H E R E  was  a  strange- 
ness about  that  Novem- 
ber evening.  It  met  the 
returning  Daddy  even 
on  the  threshold  of  his 
home-coming.  The 
children  stood  oddly 
away  from  his  suit-case,  and  no  hands 
were  thrust  into  his  bulging  pockets. 

"We  can't  have  any  more  toys,"  said 
they  with  that  smug  importance  always 
assumed  by  the  bearers  of  ill  news.  And 
when  they  had  exchanged  portentous 
stares  with  him  over  this,  Ethel  piled  on 
another  efFect. 

"All  the  toys  have  gone  away,"  said 
she. 

"Not  the  lion,"  amended  Oscar, 
eagerly. 

"No,"  said  Ethel,  looking  down  at 
Oscar  with  kindly  patronage,  "the  lion 
hid  under  the  bed,  and  the  rocking-horse 
was  too  big,  and  Poor  Doll — well,  Mother 
said  she  could  stay.  But  all  the  others 
are  in  the  dark  place  under  the  roof. 
The  closet  in  the  attic  where  the  screens 
stay  in  winter  and  the  Brownie  lives. 
Now  it's  called  'the  Place  of  Gone- 
aways. 

"Why —  How  did  it  happen?"  he 
asked  with  startled  perplexity. 

"We  were  naughty,"  was  the  cheerful 
explanation  in  Ethel's  high,  incisive 
tones. 

"Naughty!"  He  looked  upward  at 
the  silent  but  critical  audience  of  one 
who  stood  upon  the  stairs. 

"Tell  Daddy  how  it  happened," 
floated  down  softly. 

"We- ell,"  began  Ethel,  slowly, 
"Mother  told  us  to  pick  'em  up.  And 
we  didn't."  She  assumed  a  bravado  in 
the  recital  that  was  as  transparent  as 
tears.  It  was  evidently  no  light  matter. 
"We  were  naughty." 

Oscar  gave  an  illustrative  stamp  with 
his  foot. 

"I  was  very  naughty!"  said  he  with 
pride. 


"Then,"  resumed  Ethel,  "Mother 
said  if  we  didn't  pick  them  up,  she'd 
sweep  them  up.  We  said  we  didn't 
care. 

"We  said  we  didn't  care,"  squealed 
Oscar,  delightedly,  jumping  rapidly  from 
the  lowest  step  to  the  floor,  and  repeat- 
ing the  feat  many  times.  "See  what  I 
can  do,"  he  joyously  commanded. 

"Then  Mother  said,"  went  on  Ethel, 
"that  all  the  toys  would  have  to  go 
away  until  after  Christmas  and  we 
couldn't  have  anymore  until  then,  even 
if  you  brought  some  home  to-night.  And 
we  said  she  could  have  them.  So  she 
did." 

At  the  close  of  her  narrative  Ethel 
made  the  gesture  of  one  about  to  climb 
and  was  quickly  swung  to  Daddy's 
shoulder,  whence  she  looked  upward  at 
her  mother  gravely  for  a  moment,  as  the 
mother  thought  with  a  pang,  critically. 

As  to  the  Daddy,  his  under  lip  did  not 
exactly  come  out,  but  the  shine  of  his 
glasses  upturned  to  Authority  was  like 
the  gleam  of  tears.  Authority  spoke 
hastily,  with  troubled  but  kind  severity: 

"Whatever  you've  got  there  will  be 
all  the  nicer  at  Christmas.  Santa  Claus 
will  be  glad  to  use  them  then,  I'm  sure." 
Authority  came  down  the  stairs  with  a 
somewhat  one-sided  smile  of  greeting: 

"I — I'll  talk  it  all  over  with  you  when 
they're  in  bed,"  said  she. 

"Oscar  has  taken  the  lion  to  bed  with 
him,"  said  she,  when  the  small,  quiet 
hour  of  grown-ups  was  at  last  come  and 
she  sought  him  in  the  library.  "Be 
careful  if  you  go  near  the  crib;  its  feet 
stick  out  six  inches  from  the  side.  Ethel 
took  Poor  Doll.  She's  got  it  all  wrapped 
up  in  a  hair  ribbon  like  a  bandage,  be- 
cause it  hasn't  any  clothes.  Poor  Doll 
was  her  very  first,  you  know,  and  the 
only  one  to  which  she  has  shown  the 
least  faithfulness.  Daddy,  don't  you 
know  those  children  have  too  many 
toys?    At  Ethel's  age  I  made  paper 


"Xll  the  Toys  have  gone  away,"  said  Ethel 


dolls.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  have 
thought  if  I'd  had  one  quarter  as  many 
toys  as  our  children  have." 

"You'd    have   liked    'em,  wouldn't 

"And  I'd  have  liked  unlimited  candy, 
too,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  not  sure  it  would 
have  been  good  for  me." 

"Toys,"  he  murmured,  thoughtfully. 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and 
marked  idly  upon  the  blotter  with  his 
pen.  "I  suppose  it  is  selfishness,  really, 
this  bringing  them  home.  The  look  of 
their  faces  when  the  door  opens.  .  .  ." 

"It  doesn't  need  the  toys  to  make 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  763.— 15 


them  look  at  you  like  that!"  she  an- 
swered, quickly. 

"Of  course,  I  know — but — the  mo- 
ment is  so  wonderful.  .  .  .  One  wishes 
to  intensify  and  prolong  it.  And  then 
I  admit  I  count  on  that  visit  to  the 
toy-shop.  After  a  particularly  exas- 
perating day,  as  soon  as  I  get  in  among 
that  innocent  painted  trash  I  can  cure 
myself  of  discontent  with  a  couple  of  red 
and  green  rubber  balls." 

His  eyes  rested  sadly  upon  the  un- 
opened suit-case.  Mrs.  Heath  fidgeted 
— it  was  like  punishing  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, yet  she  felt  that  she  must  not  yield 


116 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


her  point,  and  she  went  on  to  plead  in  one  direction — I  should  be  still  sor- 
rather  querulously.  rier,  I  think,  to  have  made  one  in  the 

"It's  getting  on  toward  Christmas,  other.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the 
you  know,  and  when  they  seemed  so  in-  skates  I  had  when  I  was  a  boy?" 
different  about  their  toys  to-day,  I  He  lit  his  meerschaum,  and  settling 
couldn't  help  wondering  where  their  into  the  comfortable  depths  of  his  chair, 
appetite  for  their  tree  was  to  come  from  looked  into  the  fire  with  twinkling  remi- 
if  they  are  already  so  sated;  and  so  when  niscence.  "Poor  little  cuss!"  he  said, 
they  were  really  naughty  and  disobedi-  thoughtfully,  then  turned  with  quick 
ent  I  took  that  way  of  punishing  them,  defensive: 

And  really,  they've  had  more  fun  with  "My  father  was  the  best  man  in  the 
the  empty  porch  and  the  bare  nursery  world.  Don't  forget  that,  you  know." 
floor.    If  you  could  have  seen  them!"  "Of  course,"  she  assented,  but  with 

He  nodded.    "I  can  understand  that,     mental  reservations. 
And  yet — if  I  have  made  a  mistake        "But  people  of  that  day  sometimes 

had  great  ideas  about 
not  spoiling  children. 
I  don't  know — I  sus- 
pect in  many  cases  it 
was  a  question  merely 
of  the  easiest  way  for 
the  parents  just  as  it 
is  now;  easy  to  with- 
hold in  times  of  less 
prosperity — easy  now 
to  give,  when  toys  are 
many  and  cheap — easy 
always  to  find  a  prin- 
ciple to  justify  one's 
inclination.  That 
wouldn't  apply  to  my 
father,  of  course.  He 
was  well-to-do,  and  he 
cared  greatly  for  his 
children.  But  the 
meager  thrift  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers  was 
strong  in  him.  He 
didn't  intend  to  have 
us  spoiled  by  indul- 
gence. Well,  we 
weren't.  Not  by  in- 
dulgence." His  face 
darkened  thought- 
fully, and  she  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  a  dear 
black  sheep. 

"As  to  those  skates 
of  mine,"  he  returned 
to  his  tale  with  a  rue- 
ful laugh:  "I  was  a 
little  chap,  and  it  took 
me  all  winter  shovel- 
ing snow  to  earn  the 
money  for  them.  The 
violets  had  come  by 

"YOU  LEAVE  THIS  CHRISTMAS  TO  ME.     I'VE  GOT  THINGS  ALL  PLANNED  "  the  time  I  had  enOUgh. 


"THE  TOYS'  LITTLE  DAY" 


117 


That  next  winter  was  so  warm  that  I  was 
forbidden  to  skate  at  all  on  account  of 
the  ice  being  thin.  And  the  following 
winter  when  I  tried  them  on  they  were 
too  small.  I  exchanged  them,  got  cheat- 
ed in  my  bargain,  and — well — I  never 
skated  at  all  when  I  was  a  boy.  There's 
lots  of  health  and  strength  for  a  boy  to  be 
had  out  of  skating.  Besides,  that  sort  of 
disappointment  has  nothing  wholesome 
about  it  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to 
discover.  It  discourages  a  kid;  puts  lead 
on  his  heels  and  elbows.  I've  been  so 
afraid  of  doing  something  like  that  to 
'em.  I  don't  believe  that  laying  the 
whole  contents  of  a  toy-shop  at  their 
feet  could  be  worse." 

He  smiled — there  was  something  fur- 
tive in  the  brilliancy  of  that  smile — 
then  grew  very  serious.  "But  I'd  hate 
to  have  anything  spoil  their  appetite 
for  this  Christmas.  I  want  this  Christ- 
mas to  stand  out  as  the  archtype, 
this  tree  to  be  the  one  tree  of  their 
whole  childhood  that  they  will  remem- 
ber when  they  look  back  at  it — no 
longer  children;  look  back  out  of  the 
lonely  places,  .  .  .  for  such  there  must 
be  you  know,  my  dear,  and  .  .  .  we 
shall  not  be  there."  He  had  leaned 
toward  her,  his  words  coming  in  that 
subdued,  eager  hurry  with  which  one 
offers  the  thoughts  of  one's  inner  sanctu- 
ary. "All  lives  have  their  places  of  'sand 
and  thorns.'  We  can't  prevent  it. 
Storms  of  temptation  and  despair  .  .  . 
of  physical  pain.  .  .  ."  His  face  clouded 
with  an  old  sorrow. 

"  I  don't  think  the  memory  of  a  happy 
childhood  would  have  hurt  Connie  when 
he  lay  dying  in  Mexico."  Connie  had 
been  the  black  sheep  and  younger 
brother. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "how  I  re- 
member those  wretched  skates  of  mine. 
I  want  to  give  them  something  to  re- 
member that  will  be  bright,  that  will 
make  them  say,  'How  they  loved  us!' 
and  want  to  pass  on  the  message  to  their 
own  children.  It  won't  be  the  toys  that 
they'll  remember  then,  it  will  be  us,  and 
they  will  understand  a  little  of  how 
much  we — wanted  good  things  for  them." 

She  was  silent  before  his  fervor,  but 
her  imagination  worried  none  the  less 
over  the  bills,  over  needed  repairs  and 
household  equipment  outworn. 


"But,"  she  hazarded  at  last,  almost 
with  tears,  "couldn't  we  make  it  bright 
and  pretty  without — spending  much?" 

He  laughed  oddly  and  avoided  her  eye. 

"You  leave  this  Christmas  to  me," 
he  commanded.  "I've  got  things  all 
planned.  In  fact,"  and  he  palpably 
blushed,  "there'll  be  things  coming 
'most  any  time  now.  I've  been  order- 
ing early,  to  get  ahead  of  the  Christ- 
mas congestion  of  traffic.  So  don't  be 
shocked  if  things  begin  to  come  when 
I'm  not  here,  will  you?  And — the 
tree —  Trimming  it  is  your  job.  I'd  be 
an  awful  duffer  at  that.  But  make  it 
shine,  won't  you?  There'll  be  quite  a 
lot  of  shiny  stuff  to  do  it  with.  I  want 
it  garish.  It  can't  be  too  bright.  The 
time  of  toys  is  so  short.  But  they  are 
such  a  tremendous  power — the  toys! 
And  joy!  A  day  all  joy!  no  sad  memo- 
ries, no  foreboding,  no  knowledge  of 
evil!  What  a  marvel  we  can  make  of  it! 
Of  course  we've  got  to  give  ourselves 
too,  or  they'll  get  sated  and  tired  and 
quarrelsome.  This  starvation  diet  you're 
putting  them  on  " — lie  grinned  slightly — 
"that's  a  pretty  good  idea.  If  they  can 
hold  out,"  he  added. 

"If  you  can  hold  out,  you  mean,"  she 
retorted,  still  unreconciled,  for  a  dreary 
procession  of  gap-toothed  china,  ragged 
table-linen,  and  worn  rugs  passed  sadly 
before  her  eyes.  "And  I  don't  think  it's 
good  business  to  wear  the  same  overcoat 
four  years." 

"Oh!  is  it  four  years?"  he  said  in 
some  surprise.  "To  be  sure.  I  got  it 
the  winter  Oscar  came." 

"And  if  you're  working  this  way  at 
night  just  to  buy  them  things  they  don't 
actually  need,"  she  went  on,  "what 
good  would  all  the  toys  do  if  you  were 
to  break  down?" 

For  she  had  been  noticing,  as  he  talked, 
how  thin  the  line  of  his  cheek  was,  and 
the  thickness  of  the  pile  of  manuscript 
that  lay  at  his  hand.  The  dreariness  of 
legal  work  had  never  seemed  so  dreary. 

"Oh,  this — "  He  shifted  a  paper  so 
that  the  pile  was  covered.  "It  rests 
me.    Really  it  does." 

He  rose  with  the  air  of  one  who  must 
be  about  his  business,  and  kissed  her, 
but  still  with  that  shy  air  of  guilt. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  Christmas, 
old  lady,"  he  reiterated. 


118 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


And  with  that  she  had  to  be  content. 

Had  one  of  the  children  cried?  No, 
the  faces  in  the  night  light  were  like 
sleeping  June  roses.  The  lion's  feet  still 
stuck  out  from  the  side  of  the  crib, 
exactly  as  they  had  done  two  hours 
before  when  she  had  manceuvered  about 
them  in  order  to  reach  a  brown  wisp  of 
his  hair  with  a  kiss.  The  short  arm  lay 
relaxed  over  the  brute's  plush  neck;  no 
trouble  there.  And  Ethel — her  cheek 
lay  softly  against  Poor  Doll's  hard  one, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  toys  were  the 
only  open  ones.  But  somewhere  some- 
thing was  wrong.  The  instinct  of  the 
mother  who  sleeps  with  one  eye  and  one 
ear  ever  alert  could  not  be  mistaken. 
Some  need  had  called  her — urgently. 

She  slipped  softly  to  the  stairhead. 
The  clock  struck  two,  solemnly,  and  light 
was  still  streaming  from  the  half-open 
library  door.  And  then  while  she  hesi- 
tated, Daddy  came  slowly  into  the  light. 
He  was  grasping  the  door-handle,  lean- 
ing on  it  heavily,  and  one  hand  was 
pressed  to  his  side.  He  looked  up,  and, 
meeting  her  anxious  eyes,  said,  but 
softly,  not  to  disturb  the  babies,  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  ill." 

It  was  a  violent  and  terrifying  illness. 
When  the  doctor  finally  came,  the  house 
was  placed  under  military  rule  forth- 
with. The  children  were  hurried  off, 
barely  with  their  breakfast,  for  an  in- 
definite stay  at  an  aunt's.  Women  with 
white  caps  came,  and  following  hard 
upon  them  a  load  of  strange  furniture, 
smelling  of  dreadful  cleanness. 

They  entered  the  nursery  and  stripped 
it  bare.  A  great  clean  room  it  was,  at 
the  top  of  the  house,  light  and  airy. 
They  changed  it  all  about,  refurnishing 
it  grotesquely  in  white,  and  then  they 
took  Daddy  up  there — all  alone;  they 
wouldn't  let  her  in  though  she  pleaded 
ever  so  hard. 

The  first  snow  was  graying  the  air. 
This  reminded  her  of  Christmas  and 
yesterday's  worry  about  the  too  many 
toys.  Had  she  objected  to  his  bringing 
home  too  many  toys  for  the  children? 
Had  the  wild  ecstasy  of  their  greeting 
seemed  too  much?  Alas!  there  would  be 
none  to-night — nor  to-morrow  night — a 
great  grim  chance  that  it  would  never 
happen  any  more. 


She  wandered  restlessly  from  room  to 
room,  her  hands  dragging  about  and 
about  against  each  other.  "Was  it  like 
this,  then,  when  it  was  /  who  was  shut 
away,  and  he  waited  and  waited  to 
hear?" 

A  heavy  wagon  drove  up  through  the 
snow.  She  hurried  down  to  prevent 
noise.  An  immense  crate  bearing  the 
name  of  a  toy  firm  was  being  delivered. 
She  directed  it  to  be  set  inside  the 
dining-room  door,  and  sat  down  before 
it,  staring  wretchedly.  Would  they 
never  be  through — up-stairs  ?  The  smell 
of  ether  crept  down  to  her,  whispering 
terrible  things.  Then  as  she  looked  at 
the  crate  there  came  an  eagerness  to  see 
and  touch  the  things  he  had  thought 
pretty. 

Restlessly,  she  found  a  hammer  and 
pried  ofF  a  board  with  as  little  noise  as 
she  could  manage. 

Something  grumbled  and  groaned 
within  a  tissue  wrapping,  and  then  the 
dainty  horns  of  a  cow  stuck  out.  A 
perfect  little  beast,  some  eighteen  inches 
long,  with  an  elfin  perfection  of  detail 
and  a  tendency  to  low  mournfully  when- 
ever you  changed  its  position.  She 
glanced  at  the  price-mark,  and  pushed 
the  lovely  toy  away  with  a  frightened 
look.  If  the  rest  of  the  things  were  on 
the  same  scale,  the  sum  total  of  them 
added  to  the  heartbreaking  expense  of 
what  was  going  on  up-stairs  would  not 
leave  very  much  of  their  year's  income. 

Then  with  a  rush  of  different  feeling 
she  laid  her  cheek  against  the  sleek  side 
of  the  little  cow  and  sobbed  tearlessly. 
Oh — what  did  anything  matter — any- 
thing—  while  Daddy  was  in  danger! 
And  —  oh,  why  had  she  grieved  him 
about  the  toys  on  that  night  of  all  others! 

And  so  the  surgeon  found  her,  weeping 
among  the  toys  when  he  came  down  to 
say:  "Mr.  Heath  came  through  splen- 
didly. He's  one  of  those  steel-fibered  men 
who  stand  up  to  things  that  would  send 
your  trained  athlete  under.  Christmas, 
eh?  He  looked  admiringly  at  the  collec- 
tion. "Let's  see,  Christmas  is —  Why, 
he  can  make  his  first  trip  downstairs 
on  Christmas  Day  —  and  a  very  jolty 
time  you'll  have  of  it,  I  expect." 

The  Heath  babies  were  not  supposed 
to  be  sung  to  sleep;  nevertheless,  it  took 


Mr.  Heath  came  through  splendidly' 


a  vast  amount  of  it  on  Christmas  Eve 
before  their  eyes  would  shut.  "I  saw 
three  ships  a-sailing,"  Mother  sang  pa- 
tiently a  dozen  times;  then,  "Hark! 
the  herald  angels  sing";  and,  "O  little 
town  of  Bethlehem."  She  was  drooping 
with  sleep  herself  long  before  she  de- 
tected the  welcome  sound  of  Oscar's 
small  but  manly  snore,  or  Ethel  had 
found  a  comfortable  position  for  Poor 
Doll;  but  when  both  cribs  at  last  had 
ceased  to  shake  she  sang,  "He  shall  feed 
His  flock,"  above  their  unconscious  little 
heads,  and  touched  their  soft  hair  once 


more  before  she  went  down  to  trim  the 
tree. 

She  must  do  it  all  alone,  no  matter 
how  sleepy  she  was,  for  Daddy  was 
saving  himself,  reluctantly,  for  the  great 
to-morrow  when  he  was  to  come  down 
for  the  first  time.  From  the  isolated 
grandeur  of  the  third  floor  he  had  stipu- 
lated that  when  she  ordered  the  tree  it 
must  be  a  big  one.  He  had  promised 
Ethel,  he  said,  that  the  tippest  top  was 
to  touch  the  ceiling;  and  promises  to 
children,  he  reminded  her  anxiously, 
must  be  kept  with  a  rigidity  of  faith. 


120 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


So  the  tippest  top  brushed  the  ceiling, 
Mother  having  craftily  adjusted  the 
star  and  the  angel  before  it  was  lifted  to 
its  upright  position. 

"O  morning  stars  together — "  she 
sang  under  her  breath  as  she  mounted 
the  step-ladder  and  began  the  festooning. 
The  decorations  were  amazing;  the 
opened  box  as  it  lay  on  the  table  shone 
out  as  if  with  the  jewels  of  some  lovely 
giant  lady,  and  the  tree,  as  one  bright 
thing  followed  another,  glittered  and 
shimmered  and  blazed  into  the  very 
king  of  all  Christmas  trees,  a  thing  of 
jewels  and  cloth  of  gold,  even  as  Daddy 
had  instructed  her.  "Let  it  be  garish. 
Let  it  shine  all  over  as  an  archtype." 
Well,  she  could  make  it  that,  she 
thought,  her  eyes  widening  before  the 
glitter.  So  she  tied  on  stars  until  her 
arms  ached,  and  then  the  balls  like 
monstrous  sapphires,  rubies,  emeralds, 
topazes  —  and  hung  the  festoons  as 
painstakingly  as  if  she  were  trimming  a 
ball  gown. 

After  that  came  the  placing  of  the 
gifts.  The  price-marks  still  spelled 
terror,  yet  she  could  enjoy  them,  too, 
reluctantly.  They  were  all  so  pretty,  so 
very  pretty;  so  exactly  what  she  herself 
would  have  loved  to  get  for  them.  And 
of  course  you  couldn't  expect  a  man  to 
realize  the  multitude  of  things  about  the 
house  that  were  really  necessary — and 
now  the  dreadful  expense  of  his  illness! 

Such  a  doll!  Mother  hung  it  to  the 
strongest  branch,  and  even  that  bent 
perilously  low  with  it.  So  she  suspended 
it  from  two  branches  by  means  of  strong 
black  threads  attached  to  its  pink  slip- 
pered feet  and  about  its  waist  so  that  it 
would  seem  exactly  as  if  making  a  flying 
jump  out  of  the  tree  straight  into 
Ethel's  arms.  A  doll  with  a  wonderful 
face — not  the  foolish,  staring,  black- 
browed,  tooth-displaying  person  that  is 
so  tiresome. 

"She  can't  abuse  that!"  said  Mother, 
looking  at  the  creature  wonderingly  as 
it  swung  lightly  above  her. 

And  there  was  a  new  lion.  Fancy! 
As  if  the  one  they  already  had  were  not 
enough.  This  was  because  Ethel  had 
complained  that  when  she  rode  races 
with  Oscar  the  rocking-horse  could  not 
really  cover  any  ground,  and  so  the  lion 
always  won.   Well — if  Daddy  wanted  to 


see  both  his  children  careering  about  on 
lions — 

The  lion  had  to  stand  under  the  tree. 
He  was  too  impossibly  big  to  even  at- 
tempt to  stand  among  the  branches. 
Then  came  the  wonderful  little  cow  for 
Oscar,  lowing  mournfully  as  it  was 
placed  among  the  stars.  And  then 
books,  picture  blocks,  a  toy  stable,  a 
doll  house,  a  Noah's  ark,  paint-boxes. 

But  at  last  it  was  done.  The  tree 
stood,  a  thing  of  unbelievable  bright- 
ness— so  pretty,  so  pretty!  she  thought, 
smiling  at  it  through  tears.  Was  it  a 
beacon  that  he  had  called  it?  Well, 
surely  it  should  be  that — something 
they  would  be  able  to  see  through  the 
years.    One  would  think  it  might  be  so. 

"There's  one  present  of  yours  you  can 
open,"  he  had  said,  with  an  embarrassed 
look.  "It  isn't  much,  but — it  is  the 
best  I  have." 

Wondering,  she  now  selected  it  from 
the  pile  of  things,  not  toys,  which  she 
had  been  forbidden  to  touch.  A  small, 
flat  package.  With  an  amused  smile 
she  found  when  she  opened  it  that  it  was 
merely  one  of  the  gift-books  of  the 
season:  a  collection  of  clever  little  essays 
about  children,  brightly  illustrated  in 
color,  which  she  had  already  seen  on  the 
tables  of  other  people  but  had  not  read. 
"I  suppose,"  she  thought,  "he  thinks  it 
expresses  some  of  his  own  ideas,"  and 
she  settled  down  to  read,  so  that  she 
could  talk  with  him  about  it  in  the 
morning.  "The  Toys'  Little  Day,"  ran 
the  title. 

But  she  was  too  drowsy  to  read. 
Irresistibly  drowsy  —  hungry,  too.  If 
Paul  had  been  able  to  trim  the  tree  with 
her,  he  would  have  been  making  a 
"  rabbit "  now.  But  he  was  asleep  (thank 
God,  only  asleep!)  and  she  was  too  lazy 
to  do  it  for  herself.  The  golden  tree 
blurred.  Striving  against  her  heavy  lids 
to  read  in  the  little  book  she  distin- 
guished something  that  made  her  smile 
— it  was  so  like  Paul  himself: 

"Happiness  is  an  enrichment  that  the 
young  life  needs  just  as  a  seedling  needs 
the  right  enrichment  at  its  very  sprout- 
ing if  it  is  to  hold  its  own  in  a  more 
indifferent  soil  later."  And  again,  "It 
isn't  by  too  much  giving  of  toys  that  we 
spoil  them  so  much  as  by  neglecting  to 
give  ourselves  at  the  same  time." 


122 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Why!  Those  had  been  almost  the 
very  words  he  had  used  that  evening 
before  he  was  ill!  For  a  moment  the 
coincidence  startled  her  awake  and  set 
her  in  the  path  of  stern  self-questioning. 
Was  it  her  fault,  then,  that  they  had  be- 
come confused  with  their  riches?  If  she 
had  played  with  them  more  instead  of 
leaving  them  so  much  with  Delia,  might 
they  not  have  been  learning,  their  hands 
growing  skilful,  their  sense  of  order  de- 
veloping? Perhaps  toys  were  as  impor- 
tant as  the  details  of  a  well-kept  house. 

This  thought  followed  her  downward 
in  the  descending  spiral  of  sleep,  to  a 
dream  in  which  the  tree  still  stood  in  its 
place,  and  she  still  sat  before  it;  but 
there  were  two  others  in  the  room,  a 
woman  and  her  little  child  who  seemed 
to  have  come  in  to  see  the  tree.  A  poor 
woman  —  something  odd  and  foreign 
about  her.  She  and  the  child  looked  up 
at  the  tree  with  bright,  dark  eyes,  not 
envious,  not  in  any  way  disapproving, 
but  seeming  only  happy  in  its  beauty. 
And  in  the  dream  there  was  a  shining 
about  them,  a  brightness  that  grew  and 
in  which  the  tree  grew  even  brighter; 
she  thought  that  she  knelt.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  noise  of  children's  laugh- 
ter— Ethel's  and  Oscar's.  She  opened 
her  eyes.  The  mysterious  visitors  were 
gone  and  she  was  in  the  easy-chair,  the 
little  book  in  her  hand.  The  tumult 
increased — the  light-heavy  thudding  of 
unshod  feet  overhead.  That  meant  that 
they  were  running  about  with  their 
stockings. 

Somebody  in  the  room  laughed,  and 
there  was  Daddy  in  his  wheeled  chair. 
"Merry  Christmas!"  said  he.  The  win- 
dows were  still  dark,  but  the  hall  clock 
boomed  six  times. 

"I'm  so  sorry  we  waked  you,"  he  said, 
with  an  eager  ring  in  his  voice.  "But 
we  can't  hold  back  the  children  any 
longer.  They've  been  awake  since  five, 
and  are  through  with  their  stockings. 
You've  certainly  arranged  things  won- 
derfully." He  looked  up  at  the  tree. 
"It  does  shine!"  said  he.  "They'll  re- 
member it." 

The  nurse  went  out  discreetly,  and  she 
let  him  pull  her  head  down  to  his  thin 
shoulder.  He  saw  the  book  and  touched 
it  in  an  embarrassed  way. 


"Did  you — read  it?"  he  asked.  "I 
put  it  in  as  a  sort  of  explanation,  you 
know — "  As  he  lifted  it  and  started  to 
turn  the  pages,  a  card  dropped  out  into 
her  lap. 

"What  is  this?"  she  asked.  He 
looked  at  her  oddly  while  she  read. 

"Hadn't  you  seen  it  before?" 

"With  a  Merry  Christmas  from  the 
author  to  his  wife,"  she  read.  But  even 
put  as  plainly  as  that,  her  understand- 
ing of  it  was  slow  to  awake. 

"Now  you  see  why  I  plunged,"  he 
said.  "It's — it's  really  quite  a  lot.  I'd 
been  doing  these  paragraphs  for  some 
time,  off  and  on,  for  Burnham,  not 
thinking  much  about  it  until  he  sug- 
gested they'd  go  well  in  a  holiday  book. 
And  really,  you  know,  it's  surprising- 
there  must  be  a  lot  of  other  people  that 
care  as  much  for  children  as  we  do — " 
He  smiled  whimsically. 

"You!"  seemed  to  be  all  that  she 
could  say. 

"And  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "that 
sort  of  thing  pays  when  it  does  succeed. 
Why,  I've  fairly  chuckled  to  myself  as 
I  watched  the  white-capped  young  per- 
sons pottering  around  here  and  counted 
up  the  surgeon's  visits.  It  hasn't  put 
us  back  a  bit — Christmas  and  appendi- 
citis: all  covered  and  enough  left  over 
for  your  spring  hat.  .  .  .  Here  they 
come." 

They  came  with  a  shout — then  stood 
still,  very  still.  The  parents,  watching 
the  little  faces,  saw  in  their  eyes  a  solemn 
wonder,  a  joy  that  answered  any  doubts 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  their  offering.  So 
long  they  stood  there,  shy  and  reverent 
— then —  No — they  didn't  go  to  the 
tree  first,  they  went  to  Daddy  and 
Mother,  signifying  by  turning  their 
backs  and  simply  raising  their  arms 
that  they  were  to  be  taken  up.  Mother 
took  them  (Daddy  wasn't  strong 
enough  yet),  and  it  was  a  long  time 
before  either  was  sufficiently  recovered 
to  descend  from  the  easy-chair  and  in- 
vestigate the  shining  wonder  more 
closely. 

The  parents  looked  at  each  other 
across  the  soft  heads,  and  the  eyes  of 
both  were  wet. 

"They  will  remember,"  said  Mo- 
ther. 


The  noon-day  Rest 


Australian  Bypaths 


THE   HEART    OF  THE   JARRAH  BUSH 

BY  NORMAN  DUNCAN 


HEREVER  there  is  des- 
perately rough  work  for 
timber  to  do,  wherever 
there  is  a  vast  burden 
to  be  borne  with  dogged 
patience,  wherever 
strain  presses  through  a 
critical  moment  and  goes  past  to  return 
again,  wherever  the  insidious  onslaughts 
of  marine-borers  and  white  ants  are  to 
be  resisted,  wherever  the  sun  warps  and 
water  rots,  wherever  skeptical  engineers 
demand  surely  dependable  service  in 
sand,  and  swamp,  and  harbor  water, 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.— 16 


through  long  periods,  there  is  a  great  cry 
for  Australian  jarrah  and  karri.  Vast 
and  raw  as  Australia  is — its  wooded 
ranges  widespread  and  new  to  the  ax, 
its  bush  rich  and  singular  with  sandal- 
wood, rosewood,  red  bean,  blackbutt, 
stringy-bark,  tulipwood,  satin  box,  silky 
oak,  tallowwood,  gum,  ironbark,  and 
pine,  it  is  with  the  arid  interior  wastes 
to  account  for  a  most  meagerly  forested 
land.  An  area  of  three  million  miles;  a 
forest  area  of  one  hundred  and  sixty 
thousand  miles.  Algeria  is  not  one-half 
more  impoverished  in  proportion.  In 


In  slow  Procession  the  great  timbers  leave  their  Home 


the  rolling,  copiously  watered  country  of 
the  Australian  southwest,  however,  into 
which  the  settlers  are  now  penetrating, 
felling  and  plowing  and  planting  as  they 
advance,  the  forests  are  abundant  with 
karri  and  jarrah,  a  great  seacoast  patch 
of  the  one,  a  wide,  rich  strip  of  the  other. 
And  these  are  timbers  of  consequence — 
sturdy,  shaggy,  gray-trunked  old  euca- 
lypts,  blood-red  when  sawn,  heavier  than 
water,  tough  in  the  grain,  elastic  and 
enduring. 

Jarrah  and  karri  are  not  elsewhere  cut 
— nor  do  they  elsewhere  grow  for  cut- 
ting— in  all  the  world. 

Traveling  south  to  the  heart  of  the 
jarrah  bush  in  hot  January  weather,  we 
fell  in  at  a  dull  wayside  station  with  a 
brisk,  bristling,  tense  young  man  of  the 
country,  a  perfervid  young  fellow,  whose 
convictions  were  mightily  assured  in  re- 
spect to  the  rights  of  the  people  (said 
he)  to  the  resources  of  their  own  domain. 
Opposition  wilted  in  the  red  heat  of  his 
convictions:  they  flamed  like  a  consum- 
ing fire.    Contradiction  was  sucked  into 
a  roaring  furnace  of  scornful  argument, 
vanished  forthwith  in  thin  smoke,  left 
nothing  behind  but  a  pitiful  residue  of 
ashes,  upon  which  the  young  man's  un- 
happy opponent  was  left  at  leisure  to 
gaze  in  shamefaced  and  stupefied  won- 
der.   Jarrah,  said  he,  was  at 
once    a    disgraceful   and  ex- 
quisitely humorous  example  of 
the  greed  of  private  enterprise  f 
and  the  astounding  futility  of 
the  traditional  forms  of  ad- 
ministering the  crown  lands  of 


the  colony.  In  this  he  was  no  mere 
saucy  partisan;  he  was  a  furious 
evangelist.  And  his  eyes  blazed  with 
zeal,  and  his  face  was  flushed  with  indig- 
nation, and  he  was  in  a  hot  sweat  of 


Kangaroos 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


125 


energy  to  be  about  the  business  of  re- 
form; and  the  sharp  slap  of  red  fist  into 
calloused  palm,  with  which  he  pointed 
his  declarations,  disclosed  the  ruthless 
quality  of  his  will  to  tear  the  world  down 
and  rebuild  it  in  a  flash  according  to  the 
very  newest  Australian  notions  of  what 
constitutes  an  efficient  and  agreeable 
world  to  live  in. 

Presently,  said  he,  the  state  would  be 
cutting  jarrah  and  karri  on  its  own 


vate  enterprise  had  smugly  pocketed  the 
profits.  And  whom  should  the  jarrah 
forests  properly  enrich?  Private  enter- 
prise? Bosh!  Was  it  for  a  moment  to 
be  maintained  that  the  people  had  en- 
joyed a  fair  share  of  all  this  wealth? 

"Royalties?"  I  ventured. 

" Royalties !"  he  scoffed.    "Ha,  ha!" 

My  suggestion  was  a  vanishing  puff 
of  smoke.  A  snort  of  laughter  had  con- 
sumed the  substance  of  it. 


Hunting  Kangaroos — a  Gallop  through  the  Bush 


account.  And  thank  God  for  that  ! 
It  was  preposterous  that  the  state, 
had  not  long  ago  set  up  a  mill  in  the 
jarrah  bush  —  preposterously  conserva- 
tive, preposterously  indulgent,  prepos- 
terously wasteful,  preposterously  slavish 
and  cowardly  and  wicked.  What  was 
the  state  for?  Be  hanged  to  private 
enterprise!  Were  we  living  in  the  last 
century?  Were  there  no  new  ideas 
abroad  ?  Had  the  people  not  awakened  ? 
Private  enterprise,  sir,  had  been  exposed. 
Private  enterprise  had  exported  millions 
of  pounds  sterling  worth  of  jarrah.  Pri- 


" Wages?"  said  I. 

"Wages!"  he  roared. 

My  contention  was  ashes. 

"Please  God,"  the  young  zealot  de- 
clared, gravely,  "we'll  wipe  private  en- 
terprise ofF  the  map  of  Western  Aus- 
tralia !" 

"  But — "  I  began. 

"Man  alive,  there  isn't  any  But! 
They're  intolerable  to  social  enterprise 
—  these  damned  hampering  Buts  and 
Whys." 

"But — "  I  tried  again. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  young  man, 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


127 


looking  me  straight  in  the  eye,  with  dis- 
concerting curiosity,  as  though  I  be- 
longed to  an  antediluvian  generation, 
and  should  be  heartily  ashamed  to  cum- 
ber the  heritage  of  my  aspiring  descend- 
ants, "what  we  demand  out  here  in 
Western  Australia  is  Progress." 
I  capitulated  to  his  suspicion. 
"Out  here  in  Western  Australia/'  he 
went  on,  now  putting  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder  in  the  intimately  benevolent 
fashion  of  a  young  country  preacher, 
"we  are  engaged  in  a  social  experiment 
that  will  astound  the  world."  He 
paused.  "Give  us  fifteen  years,"  said 
he,  exalted,  like  a  prophet — "give  us  just 
fifteen  years,  my  friend,  and  we'll  show 
this  generation  how  good  a  place  this 
little  old  world  can  be  made  to  live  in." 
Again  he  paused.  "My  friend,"  he  con- 
cluded, with  a  flash  of  the  eye  so  good 

to  see  that  it 
warmed  our  re- 
spect, "it's  good 
to  be  alive;  it's 
good,  good  to  be 
alive,  in  these  days 
— away  out  here  in 
Western  Austra- 
lia !  Australia," 


Dan  Dougherty  at  Home 


A  Chopper 

said  he,  "is  the  place  where  the  big  bat- 
tle is." 

We  liked  his  breed. 

Now,  presently  after  that,  in  a  com- 
partment of  the  train,  we  encountered 
an  old  codger  with  an  Australian  "  bung" 
(fly-bitten)  eye  and  a  marvelously  surly 
disposition  for  a  man  of  any  age  or  conr 
dition.  He  was  hunched  in  a  corner, 
scowling  and  morose  and  scornful,  suck- 
ing his  pipe  in  a  temper  which  seemed 
to  be  habitual,  and  biting  the  stem  as 
though  he  had  nothing  better  than  that 
poor  thing  to  punish  in  solace  of  his 
mood — a  sour  old  dog  with  a  great  bush 
of  indignant  iron-gray  whiskers.  He  had 
no  prosperity;  he  was  seedy  and  gray 
and  malcontent;  and  as  it  turned  out  he 
was  in  boiling  dissatisfaction  with  the 
government — the  damned  meddling  gov- 
ernment, said  he.  Too  much  law  in  the 
country,  said  he;  and  they  were  making 
new  laws  in  Perth,  for  ever  making  more 
laws — pages  of  law,  books  of  law,  tons 
of  law,  miles  and  miles  of  law!  It  was 
no  country  for  a  man  of  spirit.  It  was  a 
law-ridden  country.  There  was  no  free 
play.  A  man  couldn't  follow  his  fancy. 
A  man  was  regulated:  his  sitting  down 
must  be  accomplished  according  to  law; 
his  rising  up  and  going  forth.  What 
happened  to  a  man  of  spirit — a  man  with 
the  fire  and  ingenuity  to  strike  out  for 
himself  and  begin  to  get  along  in  the 
world?  Was  he  encouraged?  Was  he 
let  alone?  No,  sir!  The  government 
straightway  devised  a  law  to  deal  with 


128 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


his  enterprise.  It  was  meddle,  meddle, 
meddle!  The  government  meddled  more 
men  into  the  poorhouse  than  it  helped 
to  keep  out. 

"  Do  you  reckon,"  he  demanded, "  that 
a  bloke  can  own  a  cow  in  this  country?" 

We  reckoned  that  a  bloke  could. 

"Naw,"  said  he. 

"Suppose,"   we   proposed,   "that  a 
bloke  bought  and  paid  for  a  cow?" 
"It  wouldn't  be  his  cow." 
"To  whom,"  we  inquired,  "would 


that 


cow 


bel 


ong 


"Gov'ment." 

but — 
"Taxes,"  he  elucidated. 


It  was  still  obscure. 

"If  I  buy  and  pay  for  a  cow,"  the  old 
fellow  went  on,  "I  have  a  right  to  think 
that  that  cow  is  mine.  And  she  ought 
to  be  mine.  That's  argument.  You 
can't  dodge  it.  But  if  I  have  to  pay  a 
license  to  the  gov'ment  every  year  for 
the  privilege  of  keeping  that  cow,  she 
isn't  mine  at  all.  Is  she  mine  when  she's 
two  years  old?  Is  she  mine  when  she's 
ten  years  old  ?  No,  sir;  she's  never  mine. 
That  cow  belongs  to  the  gov'ment.  I 
only  rent  her.  I  couldn't  pay  for  her  and 
own  her  if  we  both  lived  to  be  a  thou- 
sand years  old.  I  could  milk  that  cow, 
and  sell  that  cow,  and  kill  that  cow;  but 


Kangaroo  Dogs 


that  cow  could  never,  never  be  mine. 
And  that's  why,"  he  added,  cunningly, 
"you  don't  catch  me  owning  no  bloody 
cow  in  this  bloody  country!" 

We  were  landed  deep  in  the  bush,  near 
dusk,  from  a  preposterously  diminutive 
coach,  no  larger  than  a  stage-coach  of  the 
early  days,  appended  as  an  afterthought 
to  a  jaunty  little  logging-train,  which 
had  tooted  and  squeaked  and  rather 
dreadfully  plunged  all  this  way  as  if  on 
an  hilarious  wager  to  go  as  fast  as  it  bally 
well  pleased,  clear  through  to  the  end  of 
the  road  without  once  jumping  the  rails 
or  damaging  more  than  the  composure 
of  the  passengers — alighting  with  three 
others,  who  tumbled  out  of  third  class, 
much  to  our  surprise,  with  luggage 
enough,  it  seemed  to  the  eye,  to  make  a 
tidy  fit  for  that  small  compartment  of 
its  own  shabby  bulk:  a  long  man  in 
rusty  black,  with  melancholy  eyes,  blue 
cheeks,  and  a  bottle  nose,  in  company 
with  a  stout,  bleached  lady,  peevishly 
managing  a  scrawny  little  girl  with  limp, 
flaxen  hair,  a  spoiled  and  petulant  child. 
We  could  by  no  means  fathom  the  busi- 
ness of  these  singular  persons.  They  had 
the  look  of  old-fashioned  strolling  play- 
ers. The  man  was  a  dank  and  gro- 
tesquely dignified  personage  of  the  old 
school  of  strollers,  as  our 
fancy  has  been  taught 
to  picture  those  charac- 
ters, and  the  child  was 
pitifully  lean  and  pallid. 
A  troop  of  fine  brown 
children  followed  them 
off — all  the  while  bash- 
fully eying  the  pallid 
little  girl. 

Here,  remote  from  all 
towns  and  farms,  was  a 
community  of  jarrah  cot- 
tages, weathered  gray, 
huddled  in  a  deep  hollow 
by  the  mill,  surrounded 
by  a  lusty  bush  which 
persistently  encroached, 
like  a  rebellious  jungle, 
for  ever  threatening  to 
overrun  and  repossess  the 
clearing  on  the  sly,  and 
must  periodically  be 
slashed  back  to  its  own 
quarters.    It  was  a  hap- 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


129 


hazard  arrangement  of  little  cottages, 
vine-clad  and  flowering,  with  winding 
lanes  between,  the  whole  inclosing  a 
dry,  irregular  common,  which  they 
used  for  half  -  holiday  cricket,  some 
such  provision  being  happily  essential  to 
the  life  of  every  community  in  Australia. 
And  every  cozy  cottage  of  them  all,  we 
were  amused  to  observe,  was  furnished 
with  a  monstrous  wooden  chimney, 
which  had  either  been  afire,  being 
charred  and  eaten  through,  or  was  wait- 
ing to  catch  afire,  to  gratify  a  mischie- 
vous ambition,  and  was  only  deterred 
from  doing  so  the  very  next  instant  by 
the  presence  near  by  of  a  long  ladder  and 
a  bucket  of  water.  Having  supped  with 
satisfaction  at  the  boarding-house — a 
private  parlor,  even  here,  to  be  sure,  in 
the  English  way,  for  guests  of  our  obvi- 
ous quality — we  walked  out  into  the 
moonlight  and  found  our  hands  gripped 
and  painfully  wrung  before  they  were 
fairly  out  of  our  pockets. 

The  author  of  this  hospitable  on- 
slaught was  a  rosy  young  man  in  a 
bowler  and  decent  tweed,  now  all  out  of 
breath  with  haste  and  lively  emotion. 

"'Twas  your  name  that  drew  me  to 
you,"  he  gasped.  "Man,  man,"  he  de- 
clared, deeply  affected,  "'tis  a  grand 
Scotch  name !  What  part  are  you  from  ?" 

I  confessed  to  a  Canadian  origin. 

"  Colonial  Scotch !"  said  the  young  dog, 
disgusted.  "Ah,  well,"  more  heartily, 
"you  can't  help  it.  I'm  from  Dumfries- 
shire myself.    Was  you  expecting  me?" 

We  had  not  been  led  to  look  for  him. 

"I'm  thinking, "said  he,  blankly,  "  that 
you've  never  heard  of  me." 

"Well,  you  see — 5/  we  began. 

"Losh!  that's  strange,"  he  broke  in, 
brooding. 

With  th  is  we  agreed. 

"Did  you  not  know  I  was  here?" 
cried  he,  then,  amazed.  "Did  nobody 
tell  you?  Man,"  says  he,  "that's  in- 
credible!  Do  you  not  know  who  I  am?" 

"Ah  yes,"  said  I,  confidently;  "you're 
the  minister." 

"Losh!  that's  stupid,"  says  he. 
"Where's  my  white  tie?  Man,  I'm  the 
Scotch  schoolmaster!" 

We  could  not  ease  his  pride;  nor 
could  we  raise  his  spirits,  which  had 
fallen  heavily;  he  was  humiliated  and 
homesick — wretchedly  humiliated.  We 


praised  his  temerity  in  venturing  so  far 
from  home  in  pursuit  of  a  future  of  con- 
sequence; we  praised  his  employment — 
his  prospects,  too;  and  with  every  word 
of  all  this  heartening  approbation,  seem- 
ing first  to  weigh  it  delicately,  to  discover 


A  Denizen  of  the  Bush 


its  reasonableness,  as  a  serious  young 
man  should,  lest  he  be  misled  by  flat- 
tery, he  agreed  in  short  nods  of  the  head, 
as  though  he  had  long  ago  reached  these 
inspiring  conclusions  for  himself  and  was 
not  to  be  surprised  by  anything  of  the 
sort.  But  he  was  not  comforted.  He 
had  been  for  three  months  in  the  colo- 
nies— and  was  not  yet  conspicuous! 
Where  was  his  energy  to  advance  him- 
self? What  had  overtaken  his  visions? 
For  a  time  he  ran  on,  his  most  inconse- 
quential sentences  wearing  an  air  of  des- 
perate importance,  in  praise  of  bush  life 
and  the  Australian  opportunity — oppor- 
tunity, he  was  careful  to  append,  with 
emphasis,  for  young  men  of  parts;  but 
by  and  by,  his  mood  gone  dry  of  cheer- 
fulness, he  rose  abruptly  to  take  his 
leave.  This  he  accomplished  in  the  most 
gloomy  fashion:  he  shook  our  hands, 
with  much  modified  warmth,  expressed 
his  delight  with  our  acquaintance,  with 
an  elderly  air  of  indulgence,  and  moved 
solemnly  down  the  path,  head  bent, 
pausing  to  brood  at  the  gate,  however, 
through  a  melodramatic  interval  which 
kept  us  expectantly  waiting. 


Drawn  by  George  Harding 

THE    HORSES    WERE    MOVING    OUT    IN    A   CLOUD   OF   SUNLIT  DUST 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


131 


All  at  once  he  stiffened  and  flashed 
about  on  us  with  some  show  of  pas- 
sion. 

"There's  many  a  Scotch  schoolmaster 
risen  to  fame  from  more  unlikely  places," 
said  he,  grimly.  "You'll  hear  tell  of  me 
yet. 

He  stalked  off. 

Upon  the  surprise  occasioned  by  the 
Scotch  schoolmaster's  ecstatic  prophecy 
came  the  loud,  tumultuous  clang  of  a 
bell.  It  was  no  grave  call  to  worship. 
No  fear!  It  was  a  wild  alarm — an  agi- 
tated, urgent  summons,  flung  far  and 
wide  over  village  and  bush  in  appeal  to 
all  true  men.  There  was  warning  in  it. 
There  was  fright  in  it.  It  split  the  still 
night  in  a  way  to  make  one's  heart  jump 
and  pound.  It  roused  to  action.  Fire! 
— it  could  mean  nothing  less.  Making 
what  haste  we  could  over  the  unfamiliar 
paths  in  the  direction  of  the  frantic 
clamor,  stumbling  and  panting,  we  came 
breathless  to  the  churchyard  by  the 
moonlit  common;  and  there — clinging 
like  a  monkey  to  the  top  of  a  tall  pole 
(which  he  had  shinned) — we  found  a  very 
small  boy  beating  the  great  bell  with  the 
clapper  by  means  of  a  short  rope.  Such 
was  his  energy,  so  precarious  was  his 
situation,  such  a  mighty  tumult  was  he 
raising,  that  we  could  not  ask  him  what 
threatened ;  but  we  were  almost  immedi- 
ately enlightened  in  another  way:  a 
second  very  small  boy,  ringing  a  hand- 
bell with  all  his  feverish  strength,  came 
tumbling  across  the  common  at  the  top 
of  his  speed. 

"Show's  in  town!"  he  bawled  as  he 
ran. 

"What  show?  Where?" 

"Melbourne  Comedy  Three!  Town 
Hall  to-night!" 

And  show  there  was,  which  promised 
beforehand,  in  the  bold  type  of  the  hand- 
bills, to  tickle  the  risibilities,  to  draw 
tears,  to  arouse  roars  of  laughter,  all 
without  in  the  least  degree  offending 
the  most  delicate  sensibilities — a  refined 
comedy-concert,  in  short,  performed  be- 
hind kerosene  footlights  by  the  melan- 
choly man  in  rusty  black  and  the 
bleached  lady  and  the  scrawny  little  girl 
with  the  limp,  flaxen  hair.  But  the  long 
man  in  black,  though  seeming  longer  and 
leaner  than  ever,  was  no  longer  melan- 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.— 17 


choly,  nor  was  he  in  black,  fresh  or  rusty; 
and  the  little  girl  was  no  longer  petulant, 
nor  was  she  pallid,  but  rosy  and  smiling, 
and  as  for  her  limp,  flaxen  hair,  it  was 
cunningly  become  a  tangle  of  dear, 
roguish  curls.  And  the  titters  and  tears 
and  guffaws  came  from  an  audience  self- 
respectingly  clad  in  its  best:  ladies  in 
pretty  white  gowns  and  gloves,  sun- 
browned  little  girls  in  starched  dresses, 
little  boys  in  tweed  and  Eton  collars 
(hands  washed  and  hair  plastered  flat), 
and  men  with  their  workaday  dungaree 
exchanged  for  respectable  Sabbath  habil- 
iments—  an  astonishingly  agreeable  and 
polite  and  happy  and  prosperous  com- 
pany, altogether  of  a  quality  rare  to  see. 
And  when  the  last  tear  was  dried,  when 
the  last  roar  of  laughter  had  subsided, 
the  floor  was  cleared,  as  by  a  whirlwind 
kept  in  waiting,  and  there  was  a  jolly, 
decent  dance,  tripped  by  young  and  old, 
all  flushed  and  joyous,  to  the  good  music 
of  an  aspiring  village  orchestra. 

Before  dawn  of  the  next  day,  being 
then  bound  to  the  works,  twenty  miles 
deeper  into  the  bush,  our  teeth  chatter- 
ing more  wilfully  than  they  had  ever 
chattered  before,  we  were  crouched 
aboard  a  flat-car,  wretched  and  near 
numb  with  cold,  yet  moved  to  be  alert 
in  a  shower  of  sparks  from  a  devil-may- 
care  little  locomotive,  which  ate  jarrah- 
wood  for  breakfast  and  breathed  black 
smoke  and  flaming  cinders  in  fine  disre- 
gard of  the  consequences  to  the  dry  mid- 
summer bush  through  which  it  went 
roaring.  That  we  were  not  consumed 
was  due  to  the  cunning  with  which  we 
sniffed  and  kept  watch,  and  the  agility 
and  determination  with  which  we  ex- 
tinguished one  another;  and  that  we  did 
not  leave  the  rich  forest  ablaze  in  a  hun- 
dred likely  places  in  our  wake  was  one 
of  the  most  incredible  experiences  of  our 
Australian  journey.  The  valleys  were 
still  deep  with  night  and  clammy  mist; 
but  the  ridges,  high  and  shaggy,  were 
beginning  to  glow,  and  through  the 
gnarled  trees  which  crested  them  the 
new  day  dropped  shafts  of  gray  light 
into  the  somber  shadows  below — like  the 
glory  of  heaven,  streaming  into  the  dark 
and  terrible  places  of  the  world,  in  the 
old  engravings  called  "The  Voyage  of 
Life." 


132 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


An  outlandish  gray  shape  shot  through 
a  patch  of  light;  and  lesser  gray  shapes, 
leaping  from  shadow  to  shadow. 

"  Kangaroo?" 

"The  first  was  a  boomer — a  big  fel- 
low. You'll  see  a  dozen  more  " — which 
turned  out  to  be  true. 

A  group  of  tents,  pitched  for  shade, 
and  open  stables,  mere  paddocks,  was 
camp  enough  for  this  benevolent  climate. 
There  were  no  low  log  cabins,  banked 
and  calked  against  cold  weather,  as  in 
the  American  woods;  and  the  camp  dif- 
fered more  conspicuously  still  in  this, 
that  the  lumberjacks  kept  their  wives 
and  children  with  them,  a  school  being 
provided  even  here  for  the  brown  little 
"scrubbers"  by  a  solicitous  government. 
The  horses  were  moving  out  in  a  cloud 
of  sunlit  dust;  and  there  were  children 
about,  in  easy  rags,  and  industrious  poul- 
try, scratching  for  their  chicks,  and  a 
cloud  and  very  plague  of  house-flies,  and 
many  great,  lean  kangaroo  dogs.  Be- 
yond all  this,  in  an  open,  ragged  old 
bush,  with  dust  and  harsh  grasses  under- 
foot, with  parrots  and  cockatoos  scream- 
ing and  squawking  in  the  branches,  and 
flitting  brilliantly,  too,  through  the  blue 
sunlight,  the  sawyers  and  teamsters  were 
at  work,  felling,  hauling,  loading,  the 
heavy  operation  proceeding,  now  that 
the  morning  was  well  advanced,  in  a 
heat  of  ioi°  in  the  shade,  yet  drawing 
hardly  more  than  a  dew  of  perspiration 
from  these  seasoned  laborers,  as  we 
whom  the  sun  was  bitterly  punishing 
could  hardly  credit. 

"Snakes  hereabouts?"  I  chanced  to 
inquire. 

"Thaousands,"  said  the  sawyer. 

^Deadly?" 
.  "They  tell  me,  and  I  believe  it,"  he 
replied,  weighing  his  words,  "that  the 
death-adder  and  tiger-snake  kill  in  half 
an  hour.  I'm  told,"  he  drawled  on,  in 
harmony  with  the  droning  weather, 
"that  a  dog  won't  last  no  more  than 
twenty  minutes.  The  death-adder,  now, 
he's  a  slow,  stupid  beast,  and  won't 
move  along.  The  tiger-snake  comes  at 
you;  but  the  death-adder,  he's  a  slow, 
stupid  beast — lies  still  and  bites  when 
you  tread  on  him.  There's  the  black 
snake,  too,  and  the  brown  snake  — 
they're  deadly ;  and  a  few  others, 
like  the  tree  snakes,  and  maybe  some 


more.    I  reckon  the  carpet-snake  is  the 
only  snake  we  got  in  this  country  that 
can't  do  too  much  damage." 
"Mortality  high?" 

"What  say?  Oh!  Well,  I'll  tell  you, 
if  you  go  hunting  for  snakes  you're  likely 
to  be  kept  real  busy;  but  if  you  mind 
your  own  business,  and  give  the  snakes 
a  chance  to  mind  their  own  business,  and 
if  you  look  out  for  them  slow,  stupid 
death-adders,  you're  likely  to  be  let  off. 
I  heard  tell  of  a  kiddie  being  bit  once. 
He  put  his  hand  in  a  rabbit-hole." 

^Did  the  child  die?" 

"Ah,  well,  no;  he  took  an  anecdote." 

It  had  been  a  mild  abrasion:  for  these 
snakes — the  black  snake  and  tiger-snake 
and  death-adder  in  particular — are  more 
virulently  poisonous  than  the  rattle- 
snake or  cobra.  Yet  death  from  snake- 
bite is  by  no  means  common  in  Australia. 

To  this  pleasant,  drowsy  old  bush — 
with  its  droning  and  sunshine  and  deep 
shade  of  jarrah  and  blackbutt  and  she- 
oak,  its  swift,  flashing  color,  its  sleepy 
twitter  and  shrewish  screaming — a  host 
of  fantastic  grass-trees,  everywhere  lurk- 
ing, gave  a  highly  humorous  aspect. 
Blackboys,  they  were  colloquially  called; 
and  truly  they  were  comical  fellows,  dis- 
tinguishing the  Australian  bush  with  the 
astonished  laughter  they  could  not  fail 
to  stimulate.  They  were  thick  as  a  man, 
tall  as  a  boy  or  a  man,  naked  as  a  canni- 
bal, all  growing  in  the  infinitely  diverse 
attitudes  of  men;  and  from  the  heads  of 
the  bare,  black  trunks,  completing  and 
pointing  the  remarkable  resemblance, 
sprang  thick  tufts  of  grass,  like  the  wild 
hair  of  savages,  from  which  a  long  spike 
protruded  in  precise  suggestion  of  a  half- 
concealed  spear.  It  seemed,  too,  that 
every  shock-headed  blackboy  of  the  bush, 
in  a  paralysis  of  rage,  suspicion,  or  amaze- 
ment, was  staring  at  us  who  traversed 
it:  dwarf  blackboys,  absurdly  corpulent 
blackboys,  lean  blackboys,  giant  black- 
boys, decrepit  blackboys,  blackboys  pom- 
pous and  timid  and  pious;  toddlers, 
and  saucy  youngsters,  and  terrible  war- 
riors: peering  with  hostile  intent,  hiding 
behind  trees,  doubled  up  in  some  agony 
of  horror,  stooping  to  escape  observa- 
tion, heads  thrown  back  in  arrested  con- 
vulsions of  merriment — a  human  variety 
of  emotion  and  behavior  in  the  emer- 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


133 


gency  of  our  invasion  of  their  secluded 
country. 

"There,"  the  Artist  declared,  pointing 
in  horror,  "are  two  disgracefully  drunken 
blackboys!" 

It  was  sadly 
true :  those  shame- 
less blackboys  had 
their  long-haired 
heads  close  to- 
gether, in  the 
manner  of  young 
college  men  musi- 
cally celebrating 
a  victory  in  the 
privacy  of  some 
great  city;  and  all 
their  joints  were 
loose,  and  their 
hair  was  fallen 
over  their  eyes, 
and  their  legs  were 
conspicuously 
weak,  and  they 
were  all  too  plain- 
ly deriving  much- 
needed  support 
the  one  from  the 
other.  / 

At  noon  we 
rested  and  re- 
freshed ourselves 
from  a  billy  of  tea 
with  the  crew  in 
the  shade  of  a 
great  blackbutt  by 
the  landing.  They 
were  British  or 
Australian  born, 
every  jack  of 
them;  there  was 
not  an  Italian  in 
the  company,  not 
even  a  Swede. 
The  Australian 
immigration  is 
British — the  Aus- 
tralian population 
ninety-six  per 
cent.    British  or 

Australian  born,  or  of  one  descent  or  the 
other.  Though  the  peasant  of  southern 
Europe  is  warmly  encouraged  to  adven- 
ture upon  the  land,  he  is  regarded  with 
that  wary  suspicion  which  attaches  to 
dark  strangers  and  is  by  no  means  in- 
dulged in  the  questionable  practices  of 


The  Village  in  the  Bush 


his  own  land.  "We'll  teach  you''  said 
the  Perth  magistrate,  passing  merciless 
sentence  upon  an  Italian  who  had  lightly 
employed  a  stiletto  in  some  small  alter- 
cation with  a  countryman,  "that  you're 

in  our  country 
now!"  These  men 
with  whom  we 
rested  were  like 
lumberjacks  the 
world  over — phys- 
ically fine,  hearty 
fellows,  but  hard 
rogues  and  was- 
trels. Their  diver- 
sion was  a  furious 
debauch,  from 
which,  having 
"knocked  down" 
their  checks  in  the 
first  public-house, 
they  crawled  back 
to  long  periods  of 
healthful  labor. 

It  being  now 
shortly  after 
Christmas,  the 
talk  had  some- 
thing to  do  with 
the  long  Christ- 
mas absence. 

"Fined  me  a 
pound  in  Jarrah- 
dale,"  said  Scotty. 

"A  pound  for 
bein'  drunk!"  cried 
the  hook-man,  in- 
dignantly. 

"Ah,  well,"  said 
Scotty,  in  honor- 
able defense  of  the 
magistrate,"I  was 
usin'  profane  lang- 
witch." 

' '  D  o  d  -  b  1  i  m  e 
me!"  the  hook- 
man  protested, 
"they  only  charge 
ten  bob  for  that  in 
Perth!" 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Scotty,  "I  talk  fast." 

In  these  simple  surroundings  Scotty 
kept  us  all  laughing;  he  was  the  wit,  and 
himself  laughed  harder  than  any.  Once, 
said  he,  a  new  chum  came  to  the  jarrah 
bush.  A  new  chum  is  a  tenderfoot, 
specifically  an  English  tenderfoot;  he  is 


134 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


of  course  the  butt  of  every  bush  and 
mining-camp  in  Australia.  And  this 
new  chum,  disgruntled  and  blistered  and 
homesick,  fancied,  said  Scotty,  that  it 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  pick  up  a 
fortune  in  Perth  than  to  hew  it  from  the 
bush.  Forthwith  he  rolled  his  swag  and 
prepared  to  return.  It  was  not  far  to  the 
railroad;  a  half-mile  of  hilly  country — 
perhaps  a  bush  mile.  But  in  very  natural 
alarm  of  being  bushed  the  new  chum 
sought  out  Scotty  for  precise  directions. 
Precise  directions  Scotty  cheerfully  af- 
forded, cross-country  directions,  more 
than  ample  for  any  bushman,  but  not  at 
all  to  the  liking  of  the  new  chum,  whom 
the  bush  never  failed  to  bewilder.  Cast- 
ing about  for  an  unmistakable  landmark 
— a  landmark  so  placed  and  obvious  that 
even  a  new  chum  could  not  fail  to  recog- 
nize and  remember  it — Scotty's  eye  fell 
by  happy  chance  on  a  cow,  placidly 
chewing  her  cud  on  the  crest  of  a  ridge 
in  the  right  direction. 

"See  that  cow?"  says  Scotty. 

"I  do,"  says  the  new  chum,  positively. 

"  Go  to  that  cow,"  says  Scotty.  "  When 
you  come  to  that  cow,  turn  to  the  right. 
You  can't  miss  the  road;  it's  within 
fifty  yards  of  that  cow." 


Drivers 


"I  go  to  the  cow,"  the  new  chum  re- 
peated, providing  against  the  chance  of 
error,  "and  turn  to  the  right?" 

"Right-o!"  says  Scotty.  "Good 
luck!" 

That  night  Scotty  was  astounded  to 
find  the  new  chum  once  more  in  the 
jarrah  camp. 

"Why,  what's  up  with  you?"  says  he. 

"Bad  directions." 

"Did  you  go  to  the  cow  and  turn  to 
the  right?" 

"I  couldn't  catch  up  with  the  cow!" 


Kangaroo  are  hereabouts  hunted  for 
sport;  for  the  hide,  too,  and  for  the 
somewhat  unsavory  delicacy  of  the  tail, 
boiled  in  a  pot  to  make  soup  and  a  jelly. 
It  is  not  an  heroic  sport.  It  is  exhilarat- 
ing, perhaps — a  gallop  through  the  bush, 
taking  the  windfalls  in  full  career,  on  the 
heels  of  a  pack  of  kangaroo  dogs,  swift  as 
greyhounds,  powerful  and  ferocious  as 
bloodhounds;  and  the  kill — the  quarry 
being  a  "boomer,"  a  savage  and  desper- 
ate "old-man"  kangaroo — provides  the 
dogs  with  some  entertaining  moments. 
A  kangaroo  takes  instinctively  to  wa- 
ter, where,  at  bay  in  depth  enough,  he 
drowns  a  dog  in  short  order.  At  bay  in 
the  bush,  upright  on 
one  hind-leg  and  the 
thick  curve  of  his  tail, 
his  back  against  a  tree, 
he  is  at  a  disadvan- 
tage. But  he  is  not 
defenseless.  The  long 
hoof  of  his  free  hind- 
leg  is  his  weapon;  and 
with  this — having  by 
good  fortune  trapped 
an  unwary  antagonist 
to  his  breast  with  his 
sharp-clawed  fore-legs 
— he  deals  a  terrible 
fashion  of  death.  In 
flight,  however,  a  kan- 
garoo is  easy  prey:  a 
knowing  dog  catches 
him  by  the  tail,  over- 
turns him  with  a  cun- 
ning wrench,  and 
takes  his  throat  from 
a  safe  angle  before  he 
can  recover. 

Notwithstanding 
the   kangaroo's  pop- 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


135 


ular  reputation  for  speed,  he  is  easily 
overtaken  in  the  bush  by  a  good  horse 
(they  say)  within  half  a  mile.  A  capable 
kangaroo  dog — a  lean,  swift  beast,  a 
cross  between  a  greyhound  and  a  mas- 
tiff, bred  to  course  and  kill — soon  runs 
him  to  bay.  Without  dogs  it  is  the  cus- 
tom to  kill  with  a  cudgel.  This  is  often 
accomplished  by  the  sportsman  from  the 
back  of  his  horse.  Dismounted,  how- 
ever, with  the  kangaroo  waiting  alertly 
for  attack,  it  is  sometimes  a  perilous  ven- 
ture to  come  to  close  quarters.  A  slip — 
and  the  sportsman  finds  himself  all  at 
once  in  a  desperate  situation.  One  of 
the  lumberjacks  with  whom  we  rested 
in  the  shade  of  the  blackbutt  showed  us 
the  scars  of  an  encounter.  He  had  rid- 
den the  kangaroo  down,  said  he;  and, 
being  in  haste  to  make  an  end  of  the 
sport,  he  had  caught  up  the  first  likely 
stick  his  eye  could  discover,  and  he  had 
stepped  quickly  and  confidently  in,  and 
he  had  struck  hard  and  accurately.  And 
the  next  instant,  caught  off  the  ground, 
he  was  struggling,  breast  to  breast,  in 
the  hug  of  the  creature,  frightfully  aware 
that  he  must  escape  before  the  deadly 
hind-foot  had  devastated  him. 

"My  club  broke,"  he  exclaimed,  "and 
the  boomer  got  me." 

There  were  long  scars  on  his  back  and 
shoulders,  the  which  we  were  not  very 
sorry  to  see,  for  we  could  not  make  out 
why  any  man  should  wish  to  kill  a  kan- 
garoo for  sport. 

Of  all  the  broken  gentlemen  that  ever 
I  met  in  my  travels,  of  all  the  scamps 
and  queer  fish  and  gray  reprobates,  Dan 
Dougherty  of  the  jarrah  bush  was  the 
most  bewildering  and  most  poignantly 
appealing.  He  was  a  stableman,  a 
stocky,  grim,  gray  old  fellow,  clad  like 
any  Bushman,  in  dungaree  and  wool — 
an  old  fellow  of  eccentric  habit,  which 
sprang,  after  all,  for  all  I  know,  rather 
from  a  high  and  reasonable  determina- 
tion than  a  churlish  disposition  or  any 
departure  from  good  health.  Whether 
Dan  Dougherty  was  rake  or  hero,  rogue 
or  gentleman,  no  man  could  tell.  He 
had  no  intimates;  he  would  not  so  much 
as  give  a  mate  a  nod  or  good-day,  but 
lived  the  years  through  in  a  silence  of  his 
own  making,  a  recluse  in  his  bachelor 
tent  by  a  she-oak  near  the  stables.  He 


had  never  battled,  they  said,  for  indul- 
gence. Yet  his  humor  was  not  molested, 
for  old  Dan  Dougherty  had  a  clear,  su- 
perior eye;  and  so  well  could  he  man- 
age his  glance,  which  struck,  glittering 
cold  and  sharp  as  a  blade,  from  behind 
brows  so  shaggy  that  he  must  clip  them, 
and  so  straight  and  haughty  was  he, 
and  so  still  and  tense  with  menace,  that 
the  bullies  and  wits  of  the  bush  had 
never  challenged  his  power  to  damage 
them. 

And  there  was  more — an  uncanny 
thing;  and  by  this  Dan  Dougherty's 
bushmates  were  thrilled  to  the  marrow 
while  they  lay  listening  and  peering 
and  shivering  in  the  darkness  by  Dan 
Dougherty's  tent.  Upon  occasion  Dan 
Dougherty  would  sweep  his  quarters  and 
put  his  dooryard  in  order;  and  having 
disposed  of  the  horses,  which  came  in 
from  the  bush,  limp  with  labor,  in  a 
cloud  of  yellow  dust,  he  would  cleanse 
and  comb  himself  and  dress  up  in  his 
best,  taking  vast  pains  to  accomplish  a 
good  appearance,  as  if  in  solicitous  ex- 
pectation of  company.  But  no  visitor 
had  ever  come — no  visitor  at  all — no 
visitor  in  the  flesh.  Yet  upon  every 
occasion  Dan  Dougherty  would  clear  his 
table,  set  out  a  candle,  a  bottle  and  two 
glasses,  and  place  two  chairs;  and, having 
surveyed  his  quarters  in  search  of  some 
disorder  (which  he  never  could  find),  he 
would  sit  himself  down  to  brood  away  the 
interval  of  waiting  for  his  strange  guest. 
But  not  for  long.  Presently  he  would 
start,  as  if  there  had  come  a  knock;  and 
he  would  listen,  jump  to  his  feet,  sure, 
now,  that  there  had  come  a  knock  indeed, 
and  make  haste  to  throw  back  the 
flap  and  peer  out  in  welcome.  There 
was  never  anybody  to  welcome — never 
a  soul  in  the  darkness. 

Yet  Dan  Dougherty  would  behave 
precisely  as  though  an  old  friend  had 
dropped  in  for  a  gossip. 

"Good  evenin',  Mister  Dougherty!" 

"Good  evenin',  Dan!" 

"I  hope  I  see  you  well,  Mister  Dough- 
erty!" 

"You  do  that,  Dan.  Bless  God,  I'm 
prime! 

This  hearty  dialogue  was  all  the  doing 
of  Dan  Dougherty.  In  the  person  of 
Mister  Dougherty  (the  visitor)  his  voice 
was  rounded  and  agreeably  haughty — a 


136 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


touch  of  condescension;  and  in  the  per- 
son of  old  Dan  Dougherty  it  was  de- 
cently humble,  in  the  way  of  a  self- 
respecting  inferior  addressing  a  natural 
and  kindly  superior. 

"Will  you  come  in,  Mister  Dough- 
erty?" 

"I  will,  Dan;  I  will  that.  You're 
good  company,  Dan,  my  boy." 

"True  for  you,  Mister  Dougherty. 
I'm  damned  good  company." 

"You  always  was,  Dan." 

"Ah,  well,  Mister  Dougherty,  I've  had 
all  these  years  in  the  bush  to  make  sure 
of  it." 

Then  proceeding  to  the  table,  Dan 
Dougherty  would  with  a  pretty  show 
of  hospitality  draw  the  chair  for  his 
ghostly  visitor  and  himself  be  seated 
opposite. 

"Will  you  have  a  glass  of  stout,  Mis- 
ter Dougherty?" 

"I  will,  Dan — and  thank  you." 

Very  gravely  Dan  Dougherty  would 
pour  the  two  glasses  full. 

"Your  health,  Mister  Dougherty!" 

"Your  health,  Dan!" 

Whereupon  Dan  Dougherty  would 
drink  off  both  glasses  and  resume  the 
conversation.  It  seemed  always  to  be 
an  impersonal  exchange.  The  listeners 
learned  nothing.  Mister  Dougherty 
talked  with  dignity  and  reserve.  Dan 
Dougherty  matched  him  in  both.  They 
appeared  to  be  a  companionable  pair; 
there  was  no  quarrel  recorded;  but  there 
was  this  mystery  about  it:  that  they 
talked  as  two  friendly  souls  might  talk 
who  were  both  sadly  aware  of  the  dis- 
grace of  the  one,  but  determined  to  pre- 
serve an  ancient  friendship  at  any  cost 
- — confining  themselves  to  innocent  top- 
ics and  taking  such  poor  solace  as  they 
could  in  mere  proximity.  "Your  health, 
Mister  Dougherty!"  "Your  health, 
Dan!"  But  the  proceeding  was  usually 
temperate  enough.  It  might  be  that  a 
second  bottle  was  opened.  It  might  be 
that  even  a  third  cork  would  pop.  And 


it  might  be — the  occasions  being  rare — 
that  in  quaffing  for  both  Dan  Dougherty 
would  drink  too  much  for  his  composure. 
At  such  times  he  would  fall  into  a  state 
of  abject  melancholy,  his  arms  straight 
out  on  the  table,  his  face  buried  between 
them,  but  not  before  there  had  been  a 
last  mysterious  exchange  between  the 
wraith  and  himself,  taking  invariably  the 
one  form. 

"And  have  you  had  letters  from  home, 
Dan?" 

"I  have  not,  Mister  Dougherty." 

"Ah,  well,  Dan,  you'll  be  takin'  a 
run  over  to  the  old  country  soon,  no 
doubt?" 

"I'm  never  goin'  home  at  all,  Mister 
Dougherty,  God  help  me !  The  old  coun- 
try's well  rid  of  me  and  the  bush  is  no 
worse  of  my  company!" 

It  was  late  when  we  were  landed  once 
more  in  the  little  hollow  by  the  mill. 
There  was  an  amazing  sunset.  For  a 
space  we  stood  stock-still  and  astounded. 
Dusk  was  near  come.  In  the  deeper 
places  of  the  hollow  it  was  already  dark. 
The  perpetual  fires  of  red  jarrah  waste 
smoldered  there,  a  living  scarlet,  and 
burst,  intermittently,  into  vermilion 
flame,  by  which  the  slow,  thick  smoke 
was  changed  to  rolling  crimson  clouds. 
And  high  past  the  deep  color  of  these  fires 
— beyond  the  black  shadows — glowed 
the  weird  sunset  light.  Once  on  the 
north  Atlantic  coast  a  change  of  the 
wind  all  at  once  interposed  a  cloud  of 
fog  between  our  small  craft  and  the 
flaring  western  sky;  and  every  drop  of 
this  thin  mist,  catching  its  measure  of 
crimson  color,  shone  like  the  dust  of 
rubies;  so  that  with  red  hands  we  sailed 
a  red  craft  in  a  world  of  red  cloud  and 
water.  But  here  was  a  green  sunset: 
a  flat,  green  sky,  all  aglow — the  light  of 
emerald  fires  beyond  the  shaggy  black 
trees  on  the  crest  of  the  hill;  and  our 
world  was  a  world  of  shadows  and  red 
fires  and  the  failing  glow  of  green. 


Mr.  Brinkley  to  the  Rescue 


BY  ELIZABETH  JORDAN 


>0U  will  admire  greatly 
the  pension  of  Madame 
Bouvier,"  said  Madame 
Olivier,  "and  you  will 
like  also  that  excellent 
woman  herself.  In  ap- 
pearance she  is  of  a  size 
remarkable;  but  her  heart  is  no  less 
large  than  her  body." 

Mrs.  Reynolds  Hartley,  of  New  York, 
listened  to  this  tribute  with  an  absent 
smile,  while  she  fitted  her  plump  figure 
into  a  desirable  corner  seat  of  the  com- 
partment pour  dames  seules,  to  which 
the  porter  had  just  escorted  her  and  her 
daughter.  Her  own  French  was  uncer- 
rain,  but  "Maudie,"  she  reflected  com- 
fortably, would  talk  to  Madame  Olivier. 
Maudie  did  everything.  Maudie  was 
an  extremely  pretty  girl,  slender  and 
dark,  with  an  efficient  air  that  perched 
rather  ostentatiously  on  the  arrogant 
shoulder  of  her  twenty-two  years.  In 
fluent  and  courageous  French  she  now 
rose  to  the  demand  of  the  moment. 

"You've  been  so  good  to  us,  Madame," 
she  said,  cordially.  "I  don't  know  what 
we'd  have  done  without  you  during  our 
two  weeks  in  Paris.  If  Madame  Bou- 
vier makes  us  half  as  comfortable,  we 
shall  be  fortunate." 

Madame  Olivier  sighed  and  made  a 
gesture  consigning  herself  to  an  abyss  of 
despair.  She  was  genuinely  sorry  to  see 
these  Americans  depart,  and  her  regret 
was  not  wholly  based  on  the  loss  of  the 
temporary  income  they  had  given  her. 
She  expressed  her  appreciation  volubly. 

"And  now  it  is  to  say  good-by,"  she 
added.  "You  are  comfortable,  yes? 
And  you  have  forgotten  nothing?  No, 
here  are  the  packages,  the  journals,  the 
fruit.  An  revolt,  then,  chere  madame  et 
mademoiselle.  It  is  but  a  ride  of  a  few 
hours.  At  two  o'clock  you  will  be  in 
Tours,  in  the  home  of  the  excellent  Ma- 
dame Bouvier.  Had  you  changed  your 
plans  less  suddenly,  I  would  have  written 
her.     But  you  are  sure  of  a  welcome." 


She  shook  hands  with  them  again  and 
departed,  and  an  instant  later  the  shrill 
whistle  of  the  French  engine  sounded  its 
final  warning  as  the  train  began  to  move. 
The  mother  and  daughter  exchanged  a 
look  of  quiet  satisfaction. 

"Well,  we're  off,"  remarked  the  older 
lady,  comfortably.  "Nothing  to  do  for 
a  few  hours  but  to  sit  still  and  watch 
France  pass  by.  I  must  say  I'm  glad  of 
it.  Another  week  of  gadding  about 
would  have  finished  me.  I  hope,  Mau- 
die," she  added,  earnestly,  "that  you'll 
settle  down  quietly  in  Tours  for  a  little 
while,  and  study  your  French,  and  let 
the  chateaux  wait  till  we're  rested. 
They'll  be  here  next  month,  which  is 
more  than  I  shall  be  if  you  drag  me  to 
see  them  to-morrow." 

Maud  Hartley  laughed. 

"Don't  worry;  I  won't,"  she  said, 
affectionately.  "Snub  every  chateau  in 
Touraine  if  you  want  to." 

Her  voice  held  the  cajoling  accents 
with  which  one  addresses  an  infant  of 
four.  In  the  year  of  leisurely  travel 
that  had  followed  her  graduation  from  a 
New  York  school,  she  had  directed  her 
mother's  destiny  according  to  the  high- 
est traditions  of  the  executive  American 
daughter.  "She  even  thinks  for  me," 
Mrs.  Hartley  boasted,  shamelessly. 

"Now  read,"  Maud  directed,  gravely, 
and  handed  her  mother  a  magazine.  And 
that  lady,  her  mind  at  ease  about  the 
chateaux,  dutifully  read. 

They  reached  Tours,  as  the  time-table 
and  Madame  Olivier  had  predicted, 
about  two  o'clock.  Once  out  of  the 
train,  Miss  Hartley,  as  usual,  took  full 
command  of  their  affairs.  She  directed 
her  laden  porters  to  a  fiacre,  which  she 
selected  from  the  congested  mass  of  vehi- 
cles at  the  station.  She  saw  to  it  that 
the  cab  was  fairly  clean  and  that  the 
horse  was  in  as  good  a  physical  condition 
as  one  could  expect  that  hard-worked 
animal  to  be  in  France.  To  the  driver 
she  paid  absolutely  no  attention.  When 


138 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


she  had  helped  her  mother  into  the  cab, 
and  had  seen  that  the  hand-luggage  was 
packed  around  her  and  the  cabman,  she 
stood  with  one  stout  little  boot  on  the 
foot-rest  of  the  fiacre  while,  in  her  best 
French,  she  gave  the  driver  Madame 
Bouvier' s  address.  He  had  lifted  the 
reins  above  the  back  of  his  lean  horse. 
At  her  words  he  dropped  them,  while  the 
look  of  one  hopelessly  bereaved  fell  upon 
his  expressive  features. 

"But,  Mademoiselle,,,  he  explained  in 
mournful  accents,  "there  is  no  longer  in 
existence  the  Pension  Bouvier!" 

Miss  Hartley  regarded  him,  an  an- 
noyed crease  disturbing  the  smooth  out- 
line of  her  brow. 

"No  Pension  Bouvier?"  she  repeated. 
"But  we  have  the  address." 

"The  address,  yes,"  explained  the 
cocker,  "but  Madame  Bouvier,  alas,  is 
no  longer  there.  I  trust,"  he  added, 
piously,  "she  is  in  heaven.  She  died  last 
month." 

Miss  Hartley  reflected  rapidly,  her 
manner  implying  that  the  act  had  been 
inconsiderate  of  Madame  Bouvier,  to  say 
the  least — not  at  all  what  she  had  been 
led  to  expect  of  her. 

"But  her  pension?"  she  asked,  with  a 
sudden  gleam  of  hope.  "Isn't  some  one 
else  conducting  that?" 

"No,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  closed, 
locked,  empty.  It  is  of  indescribable 
desolation."  He  waved  his  arms  to  indi- 
cate the  width  and  depth  of  the  desola- 
tion, and  his  steed,  misinterpreting  the 
motion,  took  two  reluctant  steps  for- 
ward. Miss  Hartley  accompanied  him, 
on  one  foot,  preserving  her  balance  by 
clutching  wildly  at  the  swinging  cab- 
door  as  she  hopped.  The  incident  did 
not  improve  her  temper,  though  it  was 
warmly  appreciated  by  a  group  of  French 
urchins,  who  stood  round  and  grinned 
delightedly,  while  a  few  men  and  women 
hurriedly  added  themselves  to  the  select 
circle. 

"I  suppose  there  are  some  good  ho- 
tels," murmured  Miss  Hartley,  crossly, 
when  the  driver  had  checked  his  horse 
with  a  flow  of  language  whose  full  elo- 
quence was  happily  lost  to  her.  She  did 
not  care  to  go  to  a  hotel.  It  was,  instead, 
her  strong  desire  to  be  in  a  pension, 
where  she  could  try  her  imperfect  French 
on  her  helpless  fellow-boarders,  instead 


of  finding  her  opportunities  limited  to 
the  usual  hotel  staff",  who  always  leaped 
half-way  to  meet  her  meaning. 

Of  a  certainty  there  were  hotels.  Her 
cocker  rattled  off  an  impressive  list.  But 
even  while  he  was  doing  so  a  motherly 
Frenchwoman  stepped  out  from  the  sur- 
rounding group,  her  broad  face  alight 
with  good  feeling,  her  hand  on  the  head 
of  a  toddling  baby  whose  fat  arms  fer- 
vently clasped  her  knee.  She  addressed 
Miss  Hartley  diffidently,  but  with  a 
charming  smile. 

"If  Mademoiselle  and  Madame  desire 
a  pension"  she  suggested,  including  the 
older  lady  in  her  deprecating  bow,  "pos- 
sibly they  will  permit  me  to  give  them 
the  address  of  a  most  excellent  one." 
And  as  Miss  Hartley  hesitated  an  in- 
stant, she  went  on:  "Does  Mademoi- 
selle desire  that  I  tell  her  cocker  to  go 
there,  that  she  may  at  least  look  at  the 
place?" 

Mademoiselle  promptly  decided  that 
she  did.  To  go  and  look  at  a  pension 
could  do  no  possible  harm,  and  to  go 
somewhere  at  once  was  highly  desirable, 
as  public  interest  in  her  affairs  was  al- 
ready blocking  traffic. 

"If  you  please,  Madame,"  she  said. 
"And  thank  you  very  much." 

Their  good  Samaritan  confided  the  ad- 
dress to  the  cabman,  who  received  it 
with  beaming  approval.  Maud  entered 
the  cab.  The  farewells,  of  somewhat  ex- 
tended beauty  and  ceremony,  were 
finally  over,  and  the  depressed  cab- 
horse  started  off,  his  mien  suggesting 
that  his  darkest  forebodings  were  real- 
ized. In  something  less  than  half  an 
hour  he  stopped  before  a  large,  square, 
white  house  surrounded  by  a  high  wall, 
and  set,  as  his  passengers  afterward  dis- 
covered, in  a  garden  which  they  entered 
by  means  of  a  wooden  door.  Mrs. 
Hartley  remained  in  the  cab  while  her 
daughter  briefly  investigated  the  at- 
tractions of  the  pension.  These,  she 
soon  realized,  were  numerous.  The  gar- 
den was  a  delight,  and  the  living-rooms 
of  the  house  she  entered  were  large  and 
bright  and  furnished  in  admirable 
French  taste.  On  the  walks  that  ran 
around  the  garden  two  happy  American 
children  rolled  French  hoops.  Within, 
several  pleasant-looking  Americans  and 
a  middle-aged  English  couple  who,  as 


Drawn  by  F.  Graham  Cootes 

GETTING    HER    FIRST    IMPRESSIONS    QUITE    ALONE,    AS    SHE    PREFERRED    TO  DO 
Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  763.-18 


140 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Maud  put  it  to  her  mother,  "fairly  oozed 
the  domestic  virtues,"  lounged  comfort- 
ably in  the  long  salon. 

The  appearance  of  the  mistress  of  the 
house  was  equally  reassuring.  She  was 
a  dark-eyed,  agreeable  Frenchwoman, 
with  the  suave  manner  of  her  class.  She 
confirmed  with  grief  the  announcement 
of  the  death  of  Madame  Bouvier,  her 
very  dear  friend;  she  sympathized  with 
the  Hartleys  in  the  inconvenience  it  had 
caused  them;  she  intimated  that  it 
would  distinctly  dim  the  celestial  con- 
tent of  Madame  Bouvier  herself  could 
she  realize  the  annoying  position  in  which 
she  had  placed  these  American  ladies. 
For  the  rest,  by  a  happy  chance,  she 
herself  had  now  vacant  two  most  desi- 
rable bedrooms  and  a  sitting-room  on  the 
second  floor,  the  whole  being  a  suite  sure 
to  suit  the  exact  needs  of  Mademoiselle 
and  her  mother.  Mademoiselle  per- 
mitted herself  to  be  escorted  to  them, 
surveyed  them,  and  promptly  engaged 
them — paying  for  them  a  week  in  ad- 
vance. This  duty  accomplished,  she  de- 
scended to  the  cab  again,  escorted  by 
her  new  landlady  and  half  the  household 
staff,  and  within  the  next  five  minutes 
the  Hartleys  and  their  luggage  were 
established  in  their  new  quarters,  and 
their  cabman,  paid  and  extravagantly 
tipped,  had  gone  his  care-free  way. 

The  travelers  had  lunched  on  the  train. 
The  pension  dinner,  they  learned,  would 
not  be  served  until  seven.  To  fill  this 
dragging  interval  Mrs.  Hartley  prompt- 
ly went  to  bed,  murmuring  something 
about  a  slight  headache. 

For  an  hour  Maud  busied  herself,  with 
the  assistance  of  one  of  the  maids,  in 
unpacking  bags,  laying  out  the  gowns 
she  and  her  mother  would  wear  at  din- 
ner, and  moving  the  furniture  about  the 
rooms  to  give  them  the  occupied  effect 
they  lacked.  When  she  had  done  all 
this  she  went  to  a  window  and  looked 
out.  Below  was  the  garden  with  the 
hoops  and  the  children.  Around  it  was 
the  high,  protecting  wall.  But  off  to  the 
right  were  wonderful  stretches  of  green 
and  pink,  French  fields  with  almond- 
trees  in  full  bloom;  and  farther  away 
still  was  a  curving  silver  line  she  knew 
must  be  the  Loire.  In  the  light  spring 
breeze  the  branches  of  the  almond-trees 
waved  a  salute  to  her,  and  she  seemed 


to  hear  the  voice  of  the  river  calling  her 
out  into  the  open.  Glancing  into  her 
mother's  room,  she  saw  that  she  was  fast 
asleep.  Without  awakening  her,  she  put 
on  her  hat,  jacket,  and  gloves,  and 
strolled  out  into  the  streets. 

She  would  not,  she  decided,  go  into  the 
country  this  afternoon,  though  that  was 
where  she  longed  to  go.  There  would 
hardly  be  time.  It  was  now  about  four 
o'clock.  She  would  see  something  of 
Tours  itself — getting  her  first  impres- 
sions quite  alone,  as  she  preferred  to  do. 

Comfortably  and  happily  she  strolled 
along,  leaving  the  wide  thoroughfares  for 
quaint  side-streets,  which  always  most 
attracted  her  in  foreign  cities.  She  had 
her  Baedeker  in  her  hand,  its  telltale  red 
back  concealed  by  a  special  cover  of  dark, 
rich  leather  which  she  had  bought  in 
Italy.  She  did  not  open  it,  however;  she 
merely  wanted  to  absorb  the  atmosphere 
of  Tours,  to  look  at  its  people,  to  hear 
the  click  of  their  sabots,  to  admire  the 
little  red  soldiers,  to  return  the  town's 
smile,  indeed,  until  .she  was  ready  to  go 
home. 

Until  she  was  ready  to  go  home!  A 
sudden  reflection  came  to  her,  then 
caught  her  by  the  throat.  Under  its 
force  she  stood  still  in  the  street,  momen- 
tarily aghast.  When  she  was  ready  to  go 
home,  where  would  she  go?  She  realized 
now,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  had  not 
the  remotest  idea.  The  kindly  French- 
woman who  stepped  out  of  the  group  at 
the  station  had  given  her  new  address, 
not  to  her,  but  to  her  driver,  and  he  had 
driven  her  to  the  house.  Incredible  as  it 
now  seemed,  when  she  reached  there  she 
had  taken  everything  for  granted.  It 
had  not  occurred  to  her  to  ask  the  pro- 
prietress her  name  or  the  address.  So, 
when  she  had  left  it,  she — Maud  Hart- 
ley, the  capable,  the  executive,  the  ex- 
perienced traveler  —  had  ventured  out 
into  a  strange  world  as  irresponsibly  as 
a  baby,  and  with  as  little  knowledge  of 
how  to  return  to  that  starting-point.  For 
a  moment  the  humiliation  of  the  experi- 
ence occupied  her  mind  more  fully  than 
its  practical  aspects.  Then,  resolutely, 
she  forced  herself  to  think  of  these. 

The  house,  she  recalled,  had  been  a 
large,  white  house,  behind  a  high  wall. 
Large,  white  houses  behind  high  walls 
were  to   be  found   upon   every  hand 


MR.  BRINKLEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 


141 


in  Tours.  Half  a  dozen  of  them  faced 
her  even  now,  as  she  stared  around  her 
trying  to  control  the  unpleasant  little 
tremor  that  was  shaking  her  nerves. 
This  wasn't  at  all  serious,  she  told  her- 
self. It  was  merely  funny — a  huge  joke 
on  her,  which  she  would  tell  with  gusto 
when  she  returned  to  America.  But  in 
the  mean  time  there  was  that  mysterious 
house  to  return  to  here  in  Tours,  in 
which  her  mother  was  waiting. 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  Five  o'clock! 
She  had  been  walking  more  than  an 
hour.  She  might  be  three  or  four  miles 
away  from  that  white  house,  wherever  it 
was.  She  was  obviously  in  quite  a  differ- 
ent part  of  the  city.  The  white  houses 
around  her  now  looked  old  and  grim 
and  forbidding.  They  seemed  to  stare 
back  at  her  with  a  strange  aloofness,  as 
if  coldly  repudiating  any  association  with 
an  American  girl  who  was  foolish  enough 
to  start  out  from  a  strange  pension  with- 
out making  a  note  of  its  location.  What 
should  she  do?    What  should  she  do? 

She  had  been  standing  still  for  several 
minutes,  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk, 
unconscious  of  the  curious  glances  of 
those  who  passed  her.  Now,  realizing 
that  she  must  not  attract  another  crowd, 
as  at  the  station,  she  moved  uncertainly 
away.  She  had  gone  only  a  few  steps 
when  she  caught  the  eager  but  respect- 
ful gaze  of  a  young  man  who  had  been 
leaning  against  an  old  wall  and  quietly 
watching  her.  When  their  eyes  met  he 
at  once  came  toward  her,  his  tweed  cap 
in  his  hand,  his  tanned,  boyish  face 
slightly  flushed  with  embarrassment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but 
can  I  help  you?  Have  you  lost  any- 
thing?" 

She  looked  uncertainly  into  his  hand- 
some, eager  face,  met  the  clear  regard  of 
his  gray  eyes,  observed  the  diffidence  of 
his  American  manner,  and  straightway 
felt  at  ease  with  him.  As  promptly,  she 
dropped  her  burden  of  anxiety  on  his 
welcome  masculine  shoulders. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  ruefully,  "I've 
lost  myself." 

He  smiled. 

"Th  at's  very  easy  in  Tours,"  he  told 
her,  "especially  for  strangers.  But  I 
know  the  place  pretty  well.  If  you'll 
tell  me  your  address,  I'll  see  that  you 
reach  it." 


His  tone  and  manner  were  exactly 
what  they  should  have  been — comfort- 
ing, reassuring,  matter-of-fact. 

"But  that's  just  what  I  can't  do," 
she  told  him.  "You  see,  I  don't  know 
my  address." 

"You  mean,"  he  asked,  uncertainly, 
"that  you've  forgotten  it?" 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  mean  that  I've 
never  had  it." 

At  the  expression  of  his  face  she 
laughed  outright.  Then,  as  briefly  as 
she  could,  she  explained  the  situation. 
At  first  he  laughed  with  her;  then  his 
eyes  grew  grave. 

"But  that's  rather  serious,"  he  ad- 
mitted, soberly. 

"Would  you  think  that  any  human 
being  could  be  so  silly?"  she  asked.  "I'm 
afraid  mother  will  never  trust  me  again. 
Poor  mother!  She  must  be  worrying 
about  me  dreadfully  this  minute.  What 
shall  I  do?  The  worst  of  it  is  that  I 
walked  out  of  the  house  without  my 
purse.    I  haven't  a  cent." 

He  gave  his  mind  to  it,  his  boyish  face 
very  serious.  At  first  sight  she  had 
thought  him  about  her  own  age.  Now 
she  decided  that  he  was  several  years 
older,  and  found  the  reflection  oddly 
interesting. 

"The  cabman  might  remember  the 
address,"  he  mused,  "if  we  could  find 
him."  He  faced  her  with  sudden  deci- 
sion. "Will  you  let  me  take  charge  of 
the  search?"  he  asked.  "Let  me  see  if 
I  can  find  the  place  for  you?" 

"Oh,  if  you  only  will!"  she  murmured, 
gratefully.  She  felt  like  a  lost  and 
frightened  child  to  whom  a  friendly  hand 
had  been  outstretched.  If  he  turned  and 
left  her,  she  told  herself,  she  believed  she 
would  run  after  him,  crying. 

"I  oughtn't  to  trouble  you,"  she 
added,  dutifully.  "It  may  be  ages  be- 
fore we  find  the  house." 

"Then  we'll  wander  hand  in  hand  for 
years,"  he  laughed,  "keeping  up  our 
mysterious  quest  while  our  hair  turns 
white  and  our  steps  grow  feeble.  And  if 
my  end  comes  before  we  find  it,"  he 
added,  "I'll  expect  you  to  mourn  for  me 
and  put  a  monument  on  the  spot  where 
I  dropped." 

She  shivered. 

"Don't,"  she  begged.  "I  can  see  my- 
self now,  a  helpless,  heartbroken  old 


142 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


woman,  weeping  at  the  grave  of  my  one 
friend." 

"Would  you  be  heartbroken?"  he 
asked. 

"Utterly,"  she  smiled. 

Their  eyes  met.  The  smile  in  both 
pairs  faded.  In  his  a  sudden  flash  took 
its  place.  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  he 
asked  himself,  did  he  feel  at  the  end  of 
half  a  dozen  sentences  as  if  he  had  known 
this  girl  all  his  life?  He  had  never  felt 
that  way  before  about  any  girl,  least  of 
all  one  he  had  known  only  five  minutes. 
With  an  effort  he  recalled  himself  to 
duty. 

"Then  it's  all  understood,"  he  said, 
briskly.  "For  the  time  you're  under 
my  orders.  We'll  see  how  obedient  you 
are. 

He  dropped  into  the  big  outside 
pocket  of  his  Norfolk  jacket  the  sketch- 
book he  had  been  holding,  and  signaled 
to  a  cabman  who  was  driving  slowly  past 
them,  his  eyes  alert  for  passengers. 
When  the  man  stopped,  he  helped  her 
into  the  cab  and  took  his  place  beside 
her. 

"Drive  to  the  station,"  he  directed  the 
cocker. 

"Oughtn't  we  to  walk  while  we're 
young  and  strong?"  she  asked,  "and 
save  the  cab-fare  for  later  years?" 

Already  the  affair  had  begun  to  seem 
to  her  like  a  joke. 

"I've  figured  that  out,"  he  answered, 
gravely.  "We  can  spend  freely  now, 
while  I'm  strong  enough  to  earn  more." 

"But  with  most  of  your  life  given  to 
the  search,"  she  insisted,  "how  can  you 
find  time  to  earn  more?" 

He  met  her  eyes  again;  then,  drop- 
ping his  own,  caught  the  adorable  effect 
of  the  lift  of  her  upper  lip  over  her  teeth 
as  she  smiled.  As  if  drawn  by  a  force 
beyond  his  control,  he  leaned  toward  her. 

"I'll  have  plenty  of  time,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "You  see,  the  thing  most  men 
spend  their  lives  looking  for,  I  think  I've 
found  already." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Fame?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  nor  money," 
he  told  her. 

Miss  Hartley  mentally  retreated. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  was  no  affair  of  hers. 
She  sat  up  suddenly,  as  one  who  has  been 
dreaming  and  is  rudely  awakened. 


"How  far  is  it  to  the  station?"  she 
asked. 

Under  the  rebuke  he  bit  his  lip.  She 
should  not  have  to  pull  him  up  again,  he 
resolved.  The  unusually  intimate  note 
with  which  their  talk  had  started  at  the 
first  instant  must  be  his  excuse. 

"Only  a  few  blocks,"  he  said.  Then, 
in  the  same  breath,  he  produced  his  cre- 
dentials and  his  plans.  "My  name  is 
Brinkley,"  he  said.  "Edward  Brinkley. 
I'm  an  American,  from  New  York, 
studying  architecture  in  Paris.  I've 
been  in  Touraine  for  a  month,  making 
notes  and  sketches."  This  introduction 
over,  he  passed  on  resolutely  to  the  task 
before  them. 

"Would  you  remember  your  cabman, 
if  you  saw  him  again?"  he  asked.  "The 
one  you  picked  up  at  the  station?" 

She  nodded.  "I  think  so,"  she  said, 
doubtfully. 

"If  you  can,  it  may  be  very  simple," 
he  told  her.  "Perhaps  we'll  find  him  at 
the  station,  if  that's  his  stand;  and  if 
we  do,  the  chances  are  that  he'll  remem- 
ber the  address." 

His  companion  leaned  back  in  the  cab 
in  restored  peace  of  mind.  Of  course  the 
cabman  would  remember  it.  That  was 
beautifully  simple.  She  would  have 
thought  of  it  herself,  given  a  little  more 
time.  Meantime,  from  the  corner  of  her 
eye  she  studied  her  companion,  and  he, 
as  if  conscious  that  such  observation 
might  still  further  reassure  her,  sat  qui- 
etly by  her  side,  looking  straight  before 
him.  It  was  not  going  to  be  easy  to  find 
that  pension,  he  reflected,  if  her  cabman 
could  not  be  discovered.  To  ask  police 
help  was  unthinkable.  The  thing  would 
be  all  over  town  the  next  day  and  the 
girl  would  be  the  talk  of  Tours.  It  might 
be  necessary  to  get  a  list  of  pensions  and 
visit  them  all.  It  would  take  some  time 
— half  the  night  at  least.  She  wouldn't 
like  that!  Unconscious  of  his  forebod- 
ings, his  charge  continued  to  study  him, 
mentally  tabulating  her  impressions. 

He  was  tall,  she  observed — possibly 
almost  six  feet  tall — erect  and  athletic. 
His  gray-green  jacket  and  knickerbock- 
ers were  of  heavy  tweed,  and  his  dark 
green  stockings  matched  his  tie.  He 
looked  extremely  comfortable,  but  had 
evidently  dressed  with  an  eye  to  detail. 
The  soft  tweed  cap  he  had  replaced  on 


Drawn  by  F.  Graham  Cooies 

"WILL    YOU    LET    ME    TAKE    CHARGE    OF    THE    SEARCH?"    HE  ASKED 


144 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


his  brown,  curly  hair  was  gray-green, 
like  his  clothes.  His  face  was  smooth,  his 
eyes  gray,  his  young  jaw  very  firm,  his 
smile  quick  and  boyish.  Altogether,  he 
was  distinctly  reassuring.  She  was  sorry 
she  had  snubbed  him,  but  he  had 
brought  it  upon  himself.  However,  he 
was  evidently  forgiving.  He  flashed  his 
brilliant  smile  upon  her  now,  as  if  he  had 
understood  her  close  scrutiny. 

"Will  I  do?"  he  asked,  teasingly.  "Or 
would  you  prefer  a  gendarme?" 

She  shuddered.  "You'll  do,"  she 
said,  emphatically,  and  looked  it. 

"Keep  an  eye  out,"  he  advised  her, 
restraining  the  response  on  the  end  of 
his  tongue.  "If  your  man  isn't  at  the 
station,  he's  driving  somewhere  in  these 
streets,  and  you  may  catch  a  glimpse  of 
him  at  any  minute.  Was  there  anything 
noticeable  about  him?  Anything  dis- 
tinctive, I  mean?" 

She  thought  there  wasn't,  but  she  de- 
scribed him  as  well  as  she  could.  The 
description  fitted  perfectly  the  man  who 
was  driving  them  at  the  moment,  as  well 
as  a  dozen  other  cabmen  they  passed. 
She  was  equally  vague  in  her  memories 
of  the  house.  It  was  white,  and  behind 
a  wall.  As  she  brought  out  these  banali- 
ties she  was  conscious  of  a  tingling  sense 
of  humiliation.  What  an  idiot  she  must 
seem  to  him!  Even  to  her  it  seemed 
incredible  that  she  or  any  other  girl  could 
have  been  at  once  so  absent-minded  and 
so  blind.  But  he  appeared  to  think  it  all 
the  most  natural  episode  in  the  world, 
and,  comforted,  she  began  to  accept  his 
view.  Certainly,  it  seemed  oddly  nat- 
ural to  be  riding  about  with  him  now. 

At  the  station  they  both  looked 
around  eagerly.  There  were  several  cab- 
men lounging  on  the  boxes  of  their 
fiacres;  none  of  them  stirred  the  chords 
of  memory.  Nevertheless,  Miss  Hart- 
ley's escort  alighted  and  made  numerous 
inquiries.  The  minds  of  the  cabmen, 
stimulated  by  the  swift  passage  of  coin 
from  hand  to  hand,  grappled  eagerly 
with  the  problem  presented  to  them. 
But  after  a  great  deal  of  talk  nothing  had 
been  discovered  beyond  the  fact  that 
none  of  these  was  the  right  man,  and 
that  none  knew  who  the  right  man  was. 
Their  combined  mental  effort  finally 
evolved  the  theory  that  the  lady's  cab- 
man might  be  Marcel  Frechette,  a  new- 


comer among  them,  who  had  gone  home 
sick  an  hour  ago.  He  had  mentioned 
having  had  a  good  day,  and  had  boasted 
that  he  could  afford  rest  when  he  re- 
quired it.  He  lived,  they  said,  in  the 
suburbs  of  Tours,  five  miles  from  the 
station,  and  they  gave  minute  directions 
for  reaching  the  spot. 

"We'll  go  and  look  him  up,"  said  Mr. 
Brinkley,  blithely.  "Meantime  we  can 
watch  the  streets  and  the  other  cabmen, 
and  see  if  you  recognize  yours.  Go 
slowly  through  the  town,"  he  added  to 
the  driver. 

Hope  again  whispered  her  welcome 
message  in  Maud's  ear.  Frechette  must 
be  the  man.  The  generous  payment  he 
had  exacted  for  handling  eight  pieces  of 
luggage,  combined  with  the  usual  fares 
and  her  handsome  tip,  had  made  him 
feel  like  a  capitalist,  and  he  had  gone 
home  to  the  delights  of  well-earned  re- 
pose. Brinkley,  to  whom  she  confided 
this  theory,  was  as  confident  as  she  was. 
It  was  hard  to  be  pessimistic,  or  even 
practical,  when  her  mere  presence  beside 
him  was  making  his  heart  sing  in  his 
breast.  She  was  here.  He  had  found 
her,  and  almost  at  the  first  glance  he  had 
known  her  for  his  own.  What  did  any- 
thing else  matter?  He  remembered  how 
often  he  had  scoffed  at  the  notion  of  love 
at  first  sight.  Well,  he  knew  better  now. 
For  twenty -five  years  he  had  been 
wholly  indifferent  to  girls;  now,  in  an 
instant,  his  whole  life  seemed  hanging  on 
this  girl  whose  very  name  he  did  not 
know. 

He  wondered  what  she  was  thinking 
of.  Was  she  worrying,  or  was  she  trust- 
ing him  ?  Was  there  any  echo  of  his  feel- 
ing in  her  heart,  or  was  she  wholly  in- 
different? He  stole  a  glance  at  her.  She 
was  sitting  with  absent  yet  happy  eyes 
fixed  on  the  far  horizon  line,  relaxed, 
content.  He  knew  how  quickly  an  un- 
wise word  of  his  would  change  that  atti- 
tude of  perfect  trustfulness — for  she  did 
trust  him,  he  realized  that  now.  And, 
though  she  was  not  yet  conscious  of  it, 
there  must  be  some  response  in  her  to 
the  depths  she  had  stirred  in  him.  Si- 
lently he  studied  the  lines  of  her  face, 
the  arch  of  her  black  eyebrows,  the  soft 
curve  of  her  lips.  He  knew  how  cold  a 
look  those  brown  eyes  could  hold;  he 
had  seen  it  only  half  an  hour  before.  He 


MR.  BRINKLEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 


145 


never  wished  to  see  it  again.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  had  known  her  only  half 
an  hour?  He  felt  as  if  he  had  known  her 
for  centuries.  It  was  hard  not  to  be  able 
to  tell  her  so.  But  he  must  be  careful — 
very  careful.  Only — how  could  a  fellow 
be  careful  when  the  Only  One  had  come 
at  last,  and  when  he  was  wholly  alone 
with  her  in  a  world  of  almond-blossoms, 
and  when  she  smiled  like  that? 

She  had,  he  decided,  the  most  charm- 
ing smile  he  had  ever  seen.  It  came 
often — whenever  he  spoke  to  her.  To 
keep  it  in  play,  he  chatted  of  his  work, 
his  life  in  Paris.  He  told  her  about  his 
family.  It  would  save  time  later,  he 
reflected,  wisely,  to  tell  her  such  things 
now.  Also,  he  drew  her  out  about  her- 
self. She  talked  of  America,  and  of  her 
travels.  They  discovered  that  they 
liked  the  same  countries,  the  same  pic- 
tures. At  the  end  of  an  hour  they  both 
felt  an  extraordinary  sense  of  long  ac- 
quaintanceship, even  of  intimacy.  The 
pleased  cabman,  grasping  his  opportuni- 
ty, also,  drove  them  on  and  on,  reaching 
his  destination  by  long  detours,  each 
detour  representing  at  least  fifty  cen- 
times added  to  his  account.  Occasion- 
ally, as  in  duty  bound,  Brinkley  directed 
Miss  Hartley's  attention  to  some  object 
of  interest  which  they  were  passing. 

"That  is  the  church  of  St.  Martin/' 
he  remarked,  when  that  venerable  shrine 
of  pilgrims  loomed  before  them.  She 
cast  a  half-hearted  glance  at  the  sacred 
spot.  There  were  moments,  she  had  just 
decided,  when  his  eyes  looked  almost 
brown,  instead  of  either  blue  or  gray. 
She  liked  his  nose,  too,  and  his  way  of 
throwing  back  his  head  when  he  laughed, 
and  his  little  trick  of  compressing  his 
lips  occasionally,  as  if  he  had  started 
to  say  something  and  had  suddenly 
checked  himself.  She  did  not  know 
what  eager  words  were  trying  to  make 
their  way  past  that  firm  barrier. 

The  cabman's  expedition  had  frankly 
resolved  itself  into  a  drive  about  Tours, 
and  Brinkley,  suddenly  realizing  this, 
quieted  his  conscience  by  reflecting  that 
his  charge  might  recognize  her  street  or 
her  own  cabman  at  any  moment.  He 
added  to  his  companion's  knowledge  by 
discoursing  learnedly  on  the  Maison  de 
Tristan  l'Hermite,  pointing  out  its  pic- 
turesque facade,  and  by  showing  her  the 


remnants  of  Plessis-les-Tours,  at  which 
she  hardly  looked,  and  the  cathedral, 
and  the  birthplace  of  Balzac,  all  of  which 
left  her  cold.  Historic  ruins,  she  felt, 
paled  before  the  charm  of  the  new  world 
in  which  she  was  driving  with  this 
stranger  who  fitted  so  wonderfully  into 
it.  It  was  a  very  beautiful  world,  a 
world  wholly  without  care  or  convention. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  world  without  memo- 
ries, too,  or  she  might  have  recalled  some 
reason  why  she  should  not  be  wandering 
through  it  in  this  detached  and  happy 
way. 

Neither  of  the  two  realized  how  late 
it  had  grown;  but  darkness  was  falling 
when  they  reached  the  rural  home  of 
Marcel  Frechette  and  summoned  that 
unattractive  person  to  its  forbidding  ex- 
terior. He  had  been  asleep  and  appar- 
ently intoxicated,  but  his  manners  were 
better  than  his  appearance. 

Alas,  no.  He  had  not  had  the  pleasure 
of  driving  Mademoiselle  from  the  sta- 
tion. Indeed,  he  had  never  had  the  ex- 
treme felicity  of  seeing  Mademoiselle 
before.  He  could  not  have  forgotten  her 
if  he  had.  If  he  might  be  permitted  to 
say  so,  the  face  of  Mademoiselle  was  one 
that  must  be  engraved  for  ever  on  the 
memory  of  one  fortunate  enough  to  be- 
hold it — 

Brinkley  checked  his  flow  of  Gallic  elo- 
quence, gave  him  a  franc,  and  ordered 
his  driver  to  depart.  As  he  lashed  his 
weary  horse  into  a  jog,  both  his  passen- 
gers were  startled  by  a  sudden  realiza- 
tion of  the  swift  coming  of  the  night  and 
the  nearness  of  an  approaching  storm. 
The  fields  around  them  lay  dim  and 
silent;  lights  winked  meaningly  at  them 
from  the  windows  of  scattered  cottages, 
the  wind  began  to  sweep  the  dust  in  a 
small  whirlwind  before  it,  and  the  sky, 
which  had  seemed  so  near  and  friendly 
an  hour  ago,  was  obscured  by  ominous 
clouds.  Even  as  they  stared  up  at  it 
the  first  heavy  drops  of  rain  began  to 
fall. 

"By  Jove!"  said  Brinkley,  with  deep 
contrition,  "I'm  making  an  awful  mess 
of  this.  I  ought  to  have  had  you  home 
long  ago.  Did  you  realize  it  was  so  late?" 

"No,"  she  said,  gently,  "I  didn't." 

He  stopped  the  cab  and  asked  the 
driver  a  question  or  two,  and  that  per- 
sonage responded  with  a  flow  of  rapid 


At  the  End  of  an  Hour  they  both  felt  an  extraordinary  Sense  of  long  Acquaintanceship 


and  urgent  French,  of  which  she  caught 
only  occasional  words.  Brinkley  turned 
to  her  with  a  worried  look. 

"The  cocker  says,"  he  explained,  "that 
he  thinks  it's  only  a  passing  storm,  over, 
probably,  in  an  hour.  There's  a  good  inn 
half  a  mile  farther  on.  He  suggests  that 
we  go  there  and  wait  till  the  worst  of 
the  storm  is  past.  Incidentally,  we  can 
get  something  to  eat." 

With  a  sigh  Maud  Hartley  awoke  from 
her  dream.  They  had  made  a  mess  of 
things — there  seemed  no  doubt  about 
that.  They  should  never  have  come  out 
into  the  country  on  this  wild-goose  chase. 
But  they  were  here,  and  the  storm  was 
here  also,  and  two  hungry  men  and  a 
starved  and  weary  horse  were  dependent 
upon  her  common  sense.  Very  well,  she 
decided.  They  should  rest  and  eat — for 
an  hour.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time  the 
storm  was  not  over,  they  would  start  for 


Tours  if  the  old  horse  had  to  swim.  Once 
in  Tours — but  now  her  imagination  re- 
fused to  pass  the  point  of  their  arrival 
in  Tours.  She  communicated  her  deci- 
sion to  Brinkley,  and  he,  seeing  her 
pallor,  and  appreciating  both  her  panic 
and  her  courage,  gave  his  orders  to  the 
cocker  between  set  teeth,  and  swore  to 
himself  that  in  some  way,  any  way,  he 
would  have  her  with  her  mother  before 
ten  o'clock. 

It  was  raining  hard  when  they  reached 
the  inn,  and  the  wind  was  shrieking 
around  the  corners  of  the  old  stone  build- 
ing. But  the  dining-room  to  which  the 
landlord  led  them  had  a  fire  on  the 
hearth,  and  the  glow  of  candles  on  table 
and  mantel  was  reflected  in  the  polished 
wood  of  the  paneled  walls.  The  meal  he 
brought  them  was  of  the  perfect  kind 
found  in  France  alone,  but  neither  did  it 
justice.    They  ate  absently  and  almost 


MR.  BRINKLEY  TO  THE  RESCUE 


147 


in  silence,  listening  to  the  gusts  of  wind 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  building,  and 
to  the  rain  that  dashed  itself  against  the 
window-panes.  Both  had  the  odd  sense 
that  sometimes  comes  in  life  of  having 
been  in  the  same  situation  before,  and 
together.  There  was  no  self-conscious- 
ness in  their  long  silences.  They  had 
reached  the  point  where  words  were  not 
necessary. 

When  they  went  out  into  the  dripping 
court  of  the  inn,  the  storm  was  at  its 
worst.  But  their  cabman  was  awaiting 
them,  enveloped  in  a  huge  waterproof 
cape,  and  the  old  horse,  cheered  by  his 
rest  and  meal,  and  protected  by  a  heavy 
blanket,  seemed  ready  for  the  road.  The 
driver  helped  them  into  the  rickety  cab, 
and  fastened  its  curtains  securely  around 
them.  Sitting  close  together,  on  the 
back  seat,  they  were  protected  from  the 
storm,  enveloped  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  drawn  together  by  an  ex- 
traordinary sense  of  interdependence 
and  intimacy.  Yet,  secure  in  this  safe 
retreat,  started  toward  Tours,  and  with 
arrival  there  in  an  hour  fairly  certain, 
Maud  suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands  and  burst  into  tears.  A  full  reali- 
zation of  her  situation  had  rolled  over 
her,  as  clearly  as  it  had  done  in  the  first 
moments  on  the  street  of  Tours.  And 
now,  as  then,  she  found  herself  in  the 
clutches  of  an  incipient  panic. 

When  they  reached  Tours,  where 
should  she  go?  She  was  as  far  from 
knowing  as  she  had  been  five  hours  ago 
— and  during  those  impossible,  incred- 
ible five  hours  she  had  been  blithely, 
happily,  driving  around  the  countryside 
with  a  strange  young  man.  What  must 
he  think  of  her?  What  could  she  think 
of  herself?  What  must  her  mother  be 
thinking  now? — her  distracted  mother, 
whom  she  had  almost  forgotten.  A 
childish  gulp  broke  from  her,  and  at  the 
sound  the  wretched  young  man  beside 
her  grew  desperate.  Seizing  his  hand- 
kerchief, he  drew  her  hands  from  her  face 
and  wiped  her  eyes.  Then,  resolutely, 
he  held  the  hands  that  tried  to  draw 
away,  and  bent  toward  her,  his  eyes 
shining  into  hers  in  the  dark.  Fright- 
ened, she  shrank  from  him. 

"Don't!"  she  cried. 

He  held  her  hands  tightly  in  his. 
"Why  not?"  he  asked,  gently. 

Vol.  CXXVIII— No.  763.— 19 


She  wrenched  her  hands  away,  and 
faced  him  with  sudden  decision. 

"I  don't  know  what  I've  been  think- 
ing of,"  she  cried.  "It's  night,  and  I'm 
lost,  and  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it,  and 
I'm  miles  from  home — wherever  home  is. 
Oh,  how  could  I  have  acted  this  way! 
And  you  didn't  care.  It  was  all  a  lark 
to  you!" 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "You  know  perfectly  well  that 
the  reason  we  both  forgot  your  little  pre- 
dicament was  because  we  were  facing 
something  bigger — the  biggest  thing  in 
life.   You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  do,"  he  insisted.  "Do  you  think 
anything  else  would  have  made  you  for- 
get? Do  you  think  I  don't  understand 
that?  I  loved  you  the  minute  I  saw 
you,  and  something  in  you  answered.  I 
knew  it  when  we  got  into  the  cab  and 
drove  away.  Home  is  any  place  where 
we  two  are  together.  That's  why  you 
weren't  afraid.  You  know  it.  Say  you 
know  it!   Say  you  love  me!" 

The  old  horse  stumbled,  and  was 
jerked  up  by  the  impatient  cabman,  with 
winged  words  of  protest.  The  storm 
was  growing  wilder,  but  neither  of  them 
noticed  it. 

"  Say  it,"  he  whispered.  She  drew  her 
hands  away,  but  very  geritly. 

"Wait,"  she  murmured. 

"But  there's  so  much  I  want  to  tell 
you,"  he  urged.  "We've  got  our  whole 
future  to  plan!" 

She  smiled  in  the  darkness.  "Wait," 
she  said  again.  Her  voice  held  both  a 
promise  and  a  command.  He  exulted  in 
the  one  and  obeyed  the  other. 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  in  silence, 
while  the  horse  made  its  weary  way 
toward  Tours.  Impassive  against  the 
stormy  sky,  the  huge  back  of  their  cab- 
man rose  above  them.  He  did  not  know 
where  they  wanted  to  go  next,  and  he 
thought  it  did  not  matter.  The  rain 
beat  upon  him,  but  he  did  not  feel  it. 
His  reins  slack  on  the  back  of  his  aged 
animal,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  he  almost 
dozed.  Behind  him,  Brinkley  looked  at 
the  white  oval  of  her  face  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  told  himself  that  he  and  she 
had  been  together,  just  like  that,  for  a 
thousand  years,  and  would  be  together, 
just  like  that,  for  a  thousand  years  to 


148 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


come.  He  could  not  picture  life  without 
her,  here  or  hereafter.  With  an  exultant 
thrill  he  told  himself  he  need  not  try. 

"We're  very  near  town,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly. "Can  you  remember  anything 
else  about  the  house — anything  you 
haven't  told  me?" 

"There  was  a  garden,"  she  murmured, 
dreamily,  "with  a  straight  path  from  the 
gate  to  the  house,  fringed  with  almond- 
trees.  There  was  a  little  fountain  at  the 
left,  but  it  wasn't  working;  the  basin 
was  held  up  by  cherubs.  I  think  the 
iron  lamp  over  the  wooden  gate  was  held 
by  cherubs,  too.   And — " 

The  old  fiacre  creaked  under  his  sud- 
den start.  He  gave  the  driver  a  quick 
order.  "Why  didn't  you  remember  that 
before?"  he  asked,  smiling  at  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  suppose 
it  was  because  at  first  I  was  so  nervous 
and  frightened.  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing except  that  I  didn't  know  the 
address  or  the  woman's  name." 

"And  then,"  he  explained,  "when  you 
stopped  being  afraid  it  began  to  come 
back.  Your  memory  developed  the  pho- 
tograph it  had  unconsciously  taken. 
Doesn't  that  sound  impressive?" 

The  cab  stopped  before  a  large,  white 
house  set  in  a  walled  garden.  Brinkley 
paid  the  driver  and  followed  her  through 
a  wooden  gate,  under  an  iron  lamp  sup- 
ported by  cherubs. 

"This  must  be  it!"  she  cried.  "And 
here's  a  number  on  the  gate-post — 37. 
I  remember  now,"  she  said,  proudly, 
"that  there  was  a  number — 37,  I  think." 

"Of  course  it's  37,"  agreed  Brinkley, 
placidly,  and  accompanied  her  into  the 
house. 

"But  how  did  you  know?"  she  de- 


manded. "And  how  did  you  happen  to 
recognize  the  fountain  when  I  described 

kr 

"By  the  luckiest  of  chances,"  he 
laughed.  "You  see,  I  happen  to  be 
boarding  here  myself!" 

"Hello,  Mr.  Brinkley,"  shrieked  a 
shrill-voiced  American  boy  from  an  up- 
per window.  "You're  dreadfully  late 
for  dinner.  And  everybody's  worried 
about  Miss  Hartley!" 

Brinkley  waved  his  hand  to  him  and 
pursued  Maud  along  the  hall  to  the  foot 
of  the  wide  stairs. 

"Mayn't  I  come  up  for  a  moment  and 
meet  your  mother?"  he  begged.  "I 
don't  want  to  wait  till  morning." 

Mrs.  Hartley,  wide-eyed  and  excited, 
heard  her  daughter's  voice  and  opened 
an  upper  door  as  he  spoke.  Her  torrent 
of  questions  was  checked  by  the  wan- 
derer, who  accounted  for  her  adventure 
in  one  pregnant  sentence,  and  introduced 
Mr.  Brinkley,  of  New  York. 

"But  what  I  can't  understand,"  said 
Mrs.  Hartley,  after  she  had  shaken 
hands  and  thanked  him,  "is  why  it 
should  have  taken  you  so  long  to  find  the 
place." 

"There's  a  reason,"  admitted  Mr. 
Brinkley,  gaily.  "Our  minds  weren't  on 
it!" 

Then,  as  she  stared  at  him,  uncompre- 
hendingly,  his  manner  changed. 

"We  were  a  little  slow  in  that,"  he 
explained,  gently,  "but  we  made  record 
time  in  another  matter.  It  took  us  five 
hours  to  get  here — but  it  didn't  take  us 
half  as  long  to  find  each  other!"  And  to 
Maud  he  added,  urgently,  "Now  that 
you're  safely  home,  admit  it!" 

She  admitted  it. 


THE  constant  reader  of  these  papers 
will  recall  with  perhaps  more  dis- 
tinctness than  the  writer  our  re- 
luctance in  owning,  some  six  or  seven 
years  ago,  that  the  earth  might  be  the 
only  inhabited  planet.  We  had  been 
brought  to  this  pass  by  Dr.  Russell  Wal- 
lace, whose  work  on  Mans  Place  in  the 
Universe  was  then  newly  given  to  the 
only  world  presumably  in  a  position  to 
accept  or  dispute  its  doctrine.  His  au- 
thority for  his  presumption,  based  upon 
a  lifetime  of  scientific  research,  had  its 
influence  with  us,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  occulted  share  in  the  binary 
glory  of  the  Darwinian  theory  which 
moved  our  ready  sympathy.  Yet  we 
remember  that  we  surrendered  at  his 
bidding,  very  unwillingly,  and  with  a 
sense  of  personal  loss,  our  chance  of  some 
time,  or  some  eternity,  meeting  a  cousin 
from  our  Mother  Earth's  brother  or  sis- 
ter worlds  in  space.  The  sun  and  the 
moon,  of  course,  had  not,  for  obvious 
reasons,  seemed  the  home  of  a  kindred 
generation.  Jupiter  was  too  remote  to 
appeal  to  us  with  the  hope  of  a  common 
humanity  in  his  children;  Venus,  forever 
coyly  turning  half  her  face  from  our 
astronomers,  did  not  promise  more  than 
the  kindness  of  a  maiden  aunt;  but 
Mars  with  his  colossal  system  of  internal 
improvements;  his  mighty  canals  draw- 
ing the  vital  fluid  from  the  melting  frost- 
caps  of  his  poles,  and  by  means  of  his 
prodigious  hydraulics  distributing  the 
water-supply  over  a  surface  which  vis- 
ibly responded  with  vegetation;  Mars 
with  his  unquestionable  atmosphere: 
Mars,  was  as  a  friendly  uncle  with  whose 
numerous  and  highly  intelligent  family 
the  earth's  enterprising  children  might 
hope  for  increasingly  intimate  relations. 

It  was  a  peculiar  pang  to  part  with 
Mars  and  we  did  so  with  some  faint  be- 
lief in  a  possible  mistake  on  the  part  of 
Dr.  Wallace.  As  the  years  passed,  we  re- 
mained in  this  reservation,  which  rather 
increased  than  diminished;  we  hardly 


know  why.  Now,  however,  comes  a  lit- 
tle book,  like  that  larger  book,  from  Eng- 
land, asking  the  dread  question,  Are  the 
Planets  Inhabited  ?  The  writer,  again  of 
authoritative  eminence,  is  Professor  E. 
Walter  Maunder,  Superintendent  of 
the  Solar  Department  of  Greenwich, 
and  author  of  well-known  astronom- 
ical works,  somewhat  popular  in  char- 
acter and  rather  religious  in  spirit.  If 
any  reader  of  ours  is  lingering  fondly 
in  our  saving  doubt  or  our  supersti- 
tion concerning  the  fact,  and  values 
such  comfort  as  we  have  found  in  it, 
we  can  only  advise  him  not  to  read 
Professor  Maunder' s  little  book,  for  it 
answers  its  question  with  a  denial,  in- 
exorable beyond  the  denial  of  Dr.  Wal- 
lace, in  the  case  of  each  planet  con- 
sidered. The  Sun,  the  Moon,  our  poor, 
dear  Mars,  Venus,  Mercury,  the  Aste- 
roids, and  the  Major  Planets  (such  dis- 
tant relatives  of  the  earth  as  Jupiter, 
Neptune,  Saturn,  and  Uranus)  have  sev- 
erally and  collectively  their  patient  hear- 
ing, and  are  then  successively  dismissed 
to  eternal  sterility  and  solitude. 

The  case  made  out  against  them  is 
that  in  none  is  there  water  that  flows. 
On  Mars  there  is  frozen  water,  ice,  in  su- 
perabundance; Venus  is  veiled  in  thick 
clouds,  vapor  in  precipitation,  but  neither 
ice  nor  vapor  will  do;  it  must  be  water 
that  flows.  As  for  the  stars  and  their 
systems  in  nearer  and  farther  space,  the 
inquiry  does  not  meddle  or  make  with 
them;  there  may  be  a  few  scores  or  hun- 
dreds of  fruitful  earths  among  their 
satellites,  but  that  is  hardly  our  affair. 
The  only  moral  question  involved  seems 
to  be  whether  the  Creator  "  would  have 
created  so  many  great  and  glorious  orbs 
without  having  a  definite  purpose,"  the 
only  such  purpose  being  "that  it  might 
be  inhabited."  But  as  to  this  Professor 
Maunder  invites  us  to  observe  that  not 
one  inhabitant  has  been  found  on  our 
own  Antarctic  Continent,  and  he  asks 
if  that  fact  has  any  theological  bearing, 


150 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


"and  why  should  it  be  different  with 
regard  to  the  continents  of  another 
planet?"  There  seems  a  good  deal  of 
force  in  this,  and  the  stubbornest  be- 
liever in  the  habitability  of  the  planets 
falters  somewhat  before  it.  The  lifeless- 
ness  of  our  Antarctic  Continent  does  not, 
indeed,  account  for  the  lifelessness  of  the 
planets,  but  it  seems  to  form  some  sort 
of  excuse  for  it,  and  we  must  own  for  a 
moment  at  least  that  Professor  Maun- 
der's  ground  is  rather  strongly  taken. 

He  comes  back  to  the  same  phase  of 
the  inquiry  in  the  extremely  interesting 
chapter  where  he  deals  more  specifically 
with  this  matter  of  apparent  waste  in 
the  universe,  and  finds  that  the  apparent 
waste  is  no  waste  apparently,  but  much 
more  probably  a  useful  and  necessary 
conditioning.    Before  we  blame  Omni- 
science and  Omnipotence  for  a  universe 
swarming  with  stars  and  planets  where 
no  man,  or  the  like  of  him,  breathes,  or 
ever  did,  or  ever  will,  or  any  beast  or 
bird  or  fish,  he  would  have  us  consider 
the  vast  waste  areas  of  our  most  inhab- 
ited continents,  which,  so  far  as  we 
know,  exist  only  to  condition  that  small 
part  of  the  earth  where  any  life  is,  brute 
or  human.    From  this  suggestion  there 
will  come  for  each  of  us  in  the  measure 
of  his  knowledge  and  power,  conjecture 
upon  conjecture,  whether  and  how  this 
is  the  rule  of  everything  that  is.  There 
is  a  fascination  in  pushing  our  guesses 
this  way  and  that,  in  all  the  reaches  of 
the  moral  conundrum  which  we  call  life, 
and  proving  apparent  waste  the  condi- 
tioning of  every  form  of  good  and  beauty. 
If  we  must  abandon  so  much  to  it,  we 
may  find  it  a  consolation  to  believe  that 
waste  rightly  considered  is  often  use  in 
disguise,  and  will  explain  many  hitherto 
insoluble  difficulties.    In  this  view  dim 
vistas  light  up  with  meaning  where  there 
was  none  before,  and  hope  springs  eter- 
nal with  more  than  molecular  activity 
where  despair  once  blocked  the  way. 

Professor  Maunder  descends  in  his  ex- 
emplification of  the  usefulness  of  waste 
to  such  a  particular  as  the  fact  that  "our 
barren  moors  and  bleak  hillsides  are  ab- 
solutely necessary  as  collectors  of  the 
water  by  which  we  live,"  though  he  says 
nothing  of  the  sport  which  they  foster 
in  the  form  of  grouse-shooting  and  deer- 
stalking.   Such  a  consideration  would 


appeal  rather  to  his  English  than  his 
American  public,  and  it  might  leave  us 
still,  if  he  urged  it,  a  prey  to  the  error 
that  "the  highest  use  to  which  land  can 
be  put  is  to  build  upon  it,"  and  to  a  mis- 
giving of  the  creative  wisdom  which 
could  work  with  such  bewildering,  such 
inscrutable  prodigality  of  means  to  such 
comparatively  small  ends;  or  which 
could  lavish  a  universe  of  suns  and  plan- 
ets upon  the  happy  conditioning  of  one 
insignificant  orb  like  that  we  live  on. 
The  best  we  can  do  under  the  circum- 
stances is  to  acknowledge  that  the  facts 
appear  to  be  with  Professor  Maunder 
while  we  reserve  a  secret  conviction  that 
the  reasons  are  with  ourselves,  and  turn 
to  our  inquiry  whether  throughout  the 
moral  world,  as  the  physical,  apparent 
waste  is  really  the  conditioning  of  things. 

Such  an  hypothesis  would  satisfac- 
torily account  for  innumerable  things, 
as,  for  instance,  why  in  the  whole  range 
of  man's  achievements  there  is  usually 
one  beautiful  thing  for  a  myriad  of 
ugly  things.    The  soul  of  him  that  in 
passing  through  almost  any  exhibition 
of  pictures  is  bowed  down  with  grief 
for  the  immeasurable  preponderance  of 
vulgar  and   silly,   and   feeble  things, 
might  take  comfort  in  the  presence  of 
one  fine,  strong  thing;   might  console 
itself  with  the  thought   that  without 
those  thousands  of  vulgar  and  silly  and 
feeble  things  this  one  fine  strong  thing 
could  not  have  been.   As  our  earth  is 
a  human  home  because  of  the  frozen 
lumps  or  smoldering  masses,  forever  ster- 
ile and  solitary,  wandering  through  the 
realms  of  thoughtless  and  speechless 
space,  so  that  sole  masterpiece  may  be 
the  indirect  effect  of  those  leagues  of 
daubs.    If  we  leave  one  of  these  "vasty 
halls  of  death"  with  its  single  spark  of 
life,  and  take  our  way  through  the  cities 
of  our  loved  and  admired  country,  we 
shall  hardly  find  more  than  one  beautiful 
edifice  amidst  the  ugly  and  sordid  hous- 
ing of  a  vast  nation,  which  had  hideously 
to  be,  in  order  that  it  might  exquisitely 
be.    But  this  will  not  offer  a  sufficiently 
vivid  image  of  the  terrible  preponder- 
ance of  imperfection  in  the  skies,  where 
the  flaming  and  frozen  corpses  of  dead 
worlds  wheel  through  the  firmament 
with  no  office  but  to  condition  the  life 
that  looks  at  them  from  one  little  sphere. 


EDITOR'S  EASY  CHAIR 


151 


For  some  conception  of  that  waste  we 
must  turn  to  the  literary  world,  where 
millions  of  worthless  books  condition  a 
single  good  one. 

But  we  men,  arrogant  sons  of  the  only 
inhabited  planet,  do  not  quite  admit  the 
final  necessity  of  waste,  of  failure,  as  the 
conditioning  of  our  successes.  We  think 
that  somehow  all  the  pictures,  buildings, 
and  books  can  yet  be  excellent.  We  poor 
human  creatures  refuse  to  look  round  on 
the  works  of  the  divine  Creator,  and  read 
in  their  imperfection,  their  unsuccess, 
their  adaptation  of  stupendous  means  to 
trivial  ends,  the  lessons  which  our  own 
endeavor  interminably  repeats.  Do  we 
somehow  think,  then,  to  be  wiser  than 
God  in  our  methods  and  completer  in  our 
works?  If  we  do,  we  are  doomed  to 
perpetual  disappointment.  After  cen- 
turies of  travail  the  race  produces  among 
billions  of  mediocrities  or  nonentities  a 
few  men  who  can  really  paint  or  write  or 
build  beautifully,  and  we  are  very  glad 
and  proud  of  them,  so  glad  and  proud 
that  we  are  loath  to  own  that  they  do 
not  always  paint  and  write  and  build 
beautifully.  When  we  do  own  the  truth, 
we  take  refuge  from  it  in  the  praise  of 
some  one  supreme  masterpiece.  But  if 
we  scrutinize  this  masterpiece  we  find 
that  it  is  masterly  only  in  a  few  points; 
the  rest  is  comparative  failure,  apparent 
waste.  The  most  perfect  poem  has  one 
line  of  pure  poetry;  the  rest  is  padding, 
mere  conditioning. 

For  one  lovely  essay  of  Lamb's,  or 
wise  one  of  Emerson's,  there  shall  be 
Easy  Chair  papers  like  this  without  end, 
where  the  writer  dimly  gropes  his  way 
from  thought  to  thought,  which  may  no 
more  be  real  thoughts  than  the  markings 
on  Mars  are  veritable  canals  and  pump- 
ing-stations.  Then,  descending  in  the 
scale  to  yet  lower  levels,  for  one  reader 
of  even  these  inferior  papers  there  shall 
be  hundreds  of  thousands  of  void  and 
formless  minds  browsing  in  a  species  of 
chemical  reaction,  like  that  of  caterpil- 
lars, on  such  fodder  as  the  ordinary  fic- 
tion of  commerce.  Are  these  products, 
and  consumers  of  them,  the  conditioning 
of  the  two  or  three  elect  intelligences  and 
performances  of  a  century?  Something 
like  this  waste  in  the  psychical  universe 
would  be  the  pale  image  of  that  devo- 
tion of  myriads  of  worlds  in  the  space 


to  the  conditioning  of  life  on  the  one 
little  planet  where  men  sparsely  dwell. 

Pale  as  it  is,  the  image  is  too  dreadful, 
and  after  its  moment  of  submission  the 
Soul  revolts  against  the  notion  that  the 
Creator  works  with  no  more  economy  of 
means  than  His  creature  in  a  universe 
one  part  life  to  a  billion  parts  death. 
The  Soul  requires  greater  proofs  than 
any  that  the  latest  astronomy  brings 
before  it  will  finally  believe  that  there 
is  no  life  anywhere,  plant  or  brute  or 
human,  except  that  which  flowing  water 
nourishes.  "How  do  you  know,  how  do 
you  know,  Professor,  that  there  is  not 
some  sort  of  life  which  is  not  dependent 
upon  your  Water  Wagon?"  the  Soul  de- 
mands. "Could  not  He  who  suffered 
the  frozen  Mars  to  lapse  from  the  state 
of  a  burning  mass  like  Jupiter  invent 
kinds  of  life  which  should  be  not  only 
possible,  but  comfortable  in  both  ?  Must 
I,  who  have  adjusted  myself  to  the 
theory  that  a  globular  earth  wheels 
round  the  sun,  against  the  evidence  of 
my  senses,  believe  now  that  it  has  no 
sentient  compeer  in  its  revolution?  Is 
there  no  drink  for  life  but  water  that 
flows,  no  divine  elixir,  no  cup  of  nectar 
which  the  heavens  should  offer  to  the 
thirst  of  those  freezing  or  burning  worlds 
and  put  or  keep  life  in  them?"  Very 
likely  Science  might  bid  the  Soul  not  talk 
stuff,  but  accept  as  fairly  ascertained 
facts  the  evidences  which  it  does  not  pre- 
tend are  complete  or  irrefutable  proofs; 
and  as  far  as  Science  is  tolerant,  we 
should  be  with  it.  But  we  should  still 
hold  with  the  Soul,  a  little.  The  author 
of  the  very  interesting  book  which  we 
have  been  considering  himself  holds  no 
little  with  the  Soul,  and  so  far  he  seems 
wise  as  well  as  kind.  He  does  indeed 
wrench  our  habitable  planets  from  our 
fond  grasp,  as  idle  toys,  and  dash  with 
water  that  flows  our  lingering  faith  in 
them.  But  at  the  end  of  his  fascinating 
inquiry  he  tells  the  Soul  that  Science 
cannot  answer  its  questions,  because 
it  has  no  experience  of  the  facts;  and 
Science  is  experience.  Apparently  he 
worships  a  Redeemer  who  shall  restore 
the  lost  proportion  between  use  and 
waste  in  the  spiritual  universe.  Yet, 
how  will  it  be  if  faith  can  scientifically 
accept  the  Resurrection  only  from  ex* 
perience,  knowledge,  ascertained  fact? 


WHEN  we  are  freshly  reminded, 
as  we  often  are,  of  the  multi- 
plicity of  novels  and  short 
stories,  rapidly  increasing  from  year  to 
year,  we  regard  the  fact  as  interesting 
rather  than  as  an  occasion  for  either  pro- 
test or  regret. 

But  why  should  we  be  surprised  at  all 
by  this  multiplicity,  which  is  an  increase 
in  variety  as  well  as  in  the  aggregate 
output?  Evolution  implies  specializa- 
tion. The  number  of  philosophical, 
scientific,  historical,  biographical,  and 
industrial  books  constantly  increases, 
and  there  are  many  reasons  why  works 
of  fiction  should  far  more  increasingly 
abound.  The  desire  for  entertainment 
is  universal,  while  that  for  information 
is  limited  even  among  the  literate,  being 
prompted  mainly  by  a  sense  of  the  need 
and  usefulness  of  learning. 

Story-telling  antedates  literature  in 
the  childhood  of  the  race,  as  the  relish 
for  it  is  manifest  in  the  individual  child 
before  it  can  read.  History  was  orally 
recited  before  Herodotus.  As  late  as  the 
Elizabethan  era  the  audience  of  Shake- 
speare's historical  dramas  was  mostly 
illiterate. 

History,  when  it  addressed  itself  di- 
rectly to  readers,  retained  much  of  its 
earliest  dramatic  and  picturesque  in- 
vestment, so  that  Clio  was  justly  reck- 
oned as  one  of  the  Muses.  It  is  only 
lately  that  history  has  sacrificed  roman- 
tic charm  and  rhetoric  in  the  interest  of 
naked  truth,  admitting  as  dominant 
factors  of  human  progress  elements  of 
political  economy  which  have  affected 
the  moods  and  conditions  of  plain  people, 
and  in  doing  this  it  has  availed  itself  of 
the  finest  art  of  modern  journalism, 
never  quite  surrendering  the  interest  and 
charm  of  the  story. 

The  desire  for  entertainment  is  not 
altogether  a  craving  for  amusement. 
Tragedy  preceded  comedy.  The  child, 
before  it  has  sufficient  experience  or  a 


widely  enough  developed  consciousness 
to  relish  wit  or  humor,  has  by  that  very 
paucity  large  room  for  sensibility  to  awe- 
some impressions  conveyed  in  masque,  as 
in  story  or  pantomime,  so  that  it  seems 
to  love  to  be  afraid,  or  at  least  to  enjoy 
the  hollow  similitudes  of  fear.  Later, 
when  words  and  images  come  to  be 
charged  with  their  full  meaning,  and 
this  meaning  is  emphasized  by  associa- 
tion and  experience,  the  sensation  is  de- 
liberately courted  in  all  forms  of  rep- 
resentation and  is  to-day  abundantly 
supplied  on  the  stage,  in  fiction,  and  in 
the  daily  newspaper. 

The  sense  of  the  comedy  of  life  grows 
in  complexity  and  refinement  with  our 
intellectual  progress.  It  has  passed 
through  many  stages  of  development, 
from  the  rude  and  grotesque  suscepti- 
bilities of  village  roisterers,  through 
periods  of  keen  wit  and  satire,  to  our 
modern  sensibility  with  its  deeper  cul- 
ture of  the  sympathies — the  fertile 
ground,  therefore,  of  genial  and  abun- 
dant humor  and  of  a  kindly  reasonable- 
ness. The  comic  sense  is  social  and  be- 
gets companionability.  It  has  to  do 
with  the  near  and  contemporaneous. 
While  we  may  well  be  glad  that  so  much 
of  actual  pain  is  hidden  from  us  and 
prefer  that  the  pathos  of  human  life 
should  appeal  to  us  remotely  through 
representative  art,  we  delight  in  direct 
contact  with  the  pleasures  of  others. 
The  comic  representation  of  life  in  liter- 
ary and  dramatic  art  gains  by  the  selec- 
tion and  elimination  which  makes  it  art, 
and  a  good  part  of  our  pleasure  in  it  is 
the  sharing  of  it  with  others.  The 
tragic  representation  concentrates  at- 
tention and  reflection,  isolating  each 
reader  or  beholder. 

The  comic  sense  is  not  only  by  its  own 
nature  expansive,  but  it  so  consists  with 
life's  growing  complexity  that,  apart 
from  its  increasing  prominence  in  the 
play  and  the  novel,  it  more  and  more 
tends  to  pervade  the  entire  range  of 


EDITOR'S  STUDY 


153 


social  sensibility.  Pathos  is  always  near 
to  tears,  but  the  field  of  comedy  spreads 
far  beyond  that  of  laughter  or  even  of 
gaiety,  including,  on  the  one  hand,  subtle 
nuances  of  intellectual  perception  and, 
on  the  other,  impressions  and  interpre- 
tations created  by  our  sympathy,  till  it 
blends  with  our  sense  of  the  pathetic. 
In  fiction  these  elements  of  comedy  find 
room  for  unlimited  development  and  re- 
finement. The  novels  of  the  two  great- 
est masters  within  the  memory  of  this 
generation — those  of  George  Meredith, 
in  their  intellectual  appreciations,  and 
those  of  Thomas  Hardy,  in  their  sym- 
pathetic characterizations  —  distinctly 
show  the  advance  beyond  their  pre- 
decessors in  the  eighteenth  and  in  the 
early  nineteenth  century.  We  note  a 
like  advance  in  the  wise  interpretations 
of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  the  intuitive 
analysis  of  Henry  James,  the  compan- 
ionableness  of  Howells,  and  the  vital 
humor  of  Mrs.  Deland.  The  comedy  of 
situation  and  character  was  never  better 
illustrated  than  in  Arnold  Bennett's 
Buried  Alive.  The  best  of  current  fic- 
tion shows  how  far  wit  has  subdued  the 
ancient  epigram,  and  humor  those  stage- 
like exaggerations  which  warped  Dickens 
out  of  natural  perspective. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that,  with  all  this 
expansion,  this  wonderful  evolution,  of 
the  comic  sense  in  life  and  literature — 
in  the  descriptive  and  philosophical 
essay  as  well  as  in  drama  and  fiction — 
comedy  must  always  bow  its  head  to 
tragedy  ? 

Perhaps  the  answer  is  simply,  Old 
Mortality.  Does  the  child,  in  the 
nursery  and  before  it  has  fairly  entered 
upon  life,  begin  to  coquet  with  Death? 
Is  this  why  he  so  keenly  relishes  the 
gruesome  folk-lore  offered  him? 

The  Egyptians  nonchalantly  displayed 
skeletons  at  their  feasts,  and  the  child- 
like medieval  imaginations  played  with 
Death  in  association  with  all  festivities, 
as  shown  in  Holbein's  famous  sketches. 
But  the  child  needs  no  such  bright  foil 
for  its  parlous  enchantment;  it  has  not 
entered  upon  any  of  life's  festivals,  yet 
welcomes  the  rash  encounter. 

The  provision  of  this  abundant  folk- 
lore in  which,  as  in  the  Bluebeard  fable, 
mortality  has  such  ghastly  visualization, 
seems  to  be  instinctive,  as  if  sure  of  the 


child's  response.  We  ask  what  meaning 
it  can  have  for  the  child,  and  our  ques- 
tion assumes  the  dignity  of  a  psycho- 
logical problem. 

In  these  nursery  tales  death  is  never 
natural,  the  inevitable  incident,  which 
to  the  child  is  a  shock  too  inert  to  seem 
tragic;  it  is  always  violent  death,  escape 
from  which  is  conceivably  possible, 
through  compliance  with  fixed  condi- 
tions, through  superior  cunning  or  agile 
evasion,  or  through  a  turn  of  the  tables 
upon  the  antagonist,  as  in  Jack  the  Giant- 
killer,  where  the  boy  despatches  the 
bogy.  These  stories  are  made  for  the 
child,  who  could  not  invent  them  or  give 
them  their  definite  shape.  But  why 
does  just  this  kind  especially  and  in- 
fallibly appeal  to  it?  The  ground  of  the 
impression,  or  enchantment,  is  indefin- 
able and  so  independent  of  acquired  ex- 
perience that  we  must  regard  it  as  hered- 
itary. Death  is  the  theme  of  mortality 
— not  as  static,  but  as  violently  quick 
Death,  the  great  challenger  to  adven- 
ture, imagination,  and  faith,  for  ever  pre- 
senting himself  to  be  wrestled  with  to 
wonderful  advantage.  Why  should  not 
the  child — itself  embodying  the  advan- 
tage of  the  endless  encounter — have  the 
innate  sense  of  this  race-heroism?  In 
the  fable  and  story  of  degenerate  peoples 
the  heroic  element  is  lacking,  giving 
larger  place  for  cunning  and  for  super- 
stitious dread. 

As  physiologically  the  sense  of  pleas- 
ure begins  in  that  of  pain,  so  in  their 
fundamental  ground  and  in  their  first 
manifestations  the  tragic  and  the  comic 
sense  do  not  seem  divided  by  any  sharp 
distinction.  The  psychology  of  laughter 
is  not  far  from  that  of  tears — that  is,  in 
their  beginnings.  The  child's  delight  in 
terror  is  an  illustration  of  this  natural 
confusion.  A  wholly  natural  sensibility 
is  to  be  presumed;  an  abnormally  sensi- 
tive child  may  be  thrown  into  convul- 
sions by  an  abrupt  shock  which  is  an 
occasion  of  fearsome  delight  to  its 
healthy  companions.  There  is  indeed 
a  kind  of  convulsiveness  in  both  sobbing 
and  laughter. 

In  their  development  tragedy  and 
comedy  grow  apart,  taking  distinctive 
lines,  as  determined  by  circumstance 
and  experience.  Tragedy  keeps  nearer 
to  its  elemental  ground,  its  original  ten- 


154 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


sion,  while  comedy,  in  its  expansion  and 
refinement,  becomes  a  relaxation.  Both 
lose  their  native  grotesquery.  Thus 
tragedy,  too,  has  its  refinement,  as  hu- 
man sensibility  broadens  with  our  ex- 
panded consciousness  and  deepens  with 
our  feeling  of  life's  profounder  meanings, 
and  a  pathos  attaches  not  only  to  vio- 
lent crises  but  to  all  mortal  vicissitudes, 
becoming  a  subdued  sadness  felt  in  the 
brightest  moments. 

1  hus,in  so  far  as  our  sense  of  life  gains 
in  reasonable  naturalness,  tragedy  again 
blends  with  comedy.  Shakespeare  con- 
joined them,  not  in  defiance  of  the 
canons  of  art,  but  in  obedience  to  "the 
art  which  nature  makes." 

Thus  violent  death  has  slackened  its 
ancient  hold  upon  human  sensibility. 
The  sharpness  of  its  tragic  edge  is  in  our 
day  blunted  even  for  the  young  person 
by  the  newspaper  record  of  murders  and 
fatal  accidents,  these  latter  increasing 
constantly  in  number  with  the  accumu- 
lating perils  of  progressive  mechanics 
and  locomotion;  and  as  the  casualties 
themselves,  except  in  singular  instances, 
like  the  sinking  of  the  Titanic,  have  no 
heroic  association,  the  old  tragic  sense 
degenerates  into  a  love  of  sensational- 
ism. The  stabs  and  thrusts  men  get  in 
moral  and  spiritual  conflicts  have  a 
stronger  appeal  to  normal  modern  sen- 
sibility. Something  enters  here  which 
is  not  wholly  mortal,  and  which,  while  it 
grows  out  of  the  hereditary  ground  of  the 
tragic  sense,  far  transcends  it. 

It  was  inevitable  that  romantic  love 
should  in  time — as  it  most  emphatically 
did  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  even  down  to 
the  nineteenth  century — come  to  be  as- 
sociated with  death  in  heroic  legend  and 
story.  Here,  too — in  the  case  of  love  as 
in  that  of  death — the  child,  before  it  has 
any  such  actual  experience  as  would  ac- 
count for  it,  is  wonderfully  impressed 
by  the  representation  conveyed  through 
the  romantic  ballad  or  by  a  novel  like 
Miss  Porter's  Scottish  Chiefs,  and  the 
tragic  circumstance  is  imperatively  de- 
manded by  the  child's  imagination,  to 
accentuate  the  impression,  there  being 
no  foil  to  love  like  death,  and — though 
it  did  not  seem  necessary  to  early  Greek 
sensibility — no  foil  to  death  like  love. 
And,  in  the  case  of  love  as  in  that  of 
death,   the  impression,  which   in  the 


child  seems  so  elemental  and  hereditary, 
is,  in  the  adult  modern  sensibility,  trans- 
muted to  a  higher  plane,  where  it  is  as- 
sociated with  ideals  that  transcend  all 
mortal  issues. 

We  see,  then,  what  an  immense  and  di- 
versified field  is  open  to  modern  fiction — 
a  field  which  it  shares  only  with  drama. 
It  includes  all  that  comes  within  the 
range  of  sensibility,  with  the  expansion 
of  which  fiction  is  developed  in  all  its 
variations.  The  greater  the  general 
craving  for  mere  information,  the  more 
the  literature  designed  for  its  satisfac- 
tion comes  to  be  condensed  in  cyclopedic 
form;  but  fiction  cannot  be  codified,  it 
must  be  read,  and  its  diffusion  is  limited 
only  by  the  number  of  readers.  Science 
and  philosophy  can  never  usurp  its  func- 
tions in  the  presentment  of  nature  and 
life.  History  can  become  its  rival  only 
by  its  imitation,  by  becoming  as  dra- 
matic and  picturesque,  but  it  can  never 
become  so  fully  and  intimately  interpre- 
tative, especially  of  contemporary  hu- 
manity. The  essay  may  more  nearly 
approach  it  in  this  office  of  interpreta- 
tion, by  assuming  its  dramatic  guise 
and  concrete  personation.  Something  of 
this  sort  began  with  Plato  and  was  more 
humanly  achieved  by  Steele  and  Addison 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  though  only 
as  a  reflection  of  contemporary  manners; 
to-day  in  the  creative  criticism  of  life 
it  not  only  co-operates  with  fiction,  but 
becomes  an  important  part  of  its  texture. 

If  novels  and  short  stories  were  writ- 
ten only  by  master  creators  and  inter- 
preters there  would  be  very  little  fiction. 
The  popular  demand  will  always  be  met 
short  of  such  high  attainment;  too  many 
readers  do  not  yet  even  insist  upon  so 
much  of  the  creative  quality  as  is  es- 
sential to  the  reality  of  fiction.  Sensa- 
tionalism is  driven  out  of  the  field  since 
it  can  no  longer  compete  with  the  actual- 
ities of  life  as  journalistically  reported. 
Unhappily,  a  deluge  of  banalities  is  wel- 
comed in  its  place. 

It  is  well,  nevertheless,  that  comedy 
has  to  such  a  degree  gained  upon  tragedy 
and  that  so  much  of  fiction  lightly  serves 
for  entertainment.  The  play  of  life  is 
next  to  its  buoyant  hope,  next  to  its 
faith,  and  most  responsive  to  the  mod- 
ern note  of  sympathy. 


The  New  Ballad  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 


BY  BURGES  JOHNSON 


AS  I  was  hasting  on  my  way 
To  catch  the  early  train, 
I  met  a  man  all  bent  and  gray 
Whose  brow  was  knit  with  pain. 
He  hoarsely  croaked,  "Ahoy!  Belay!" 
And  seized  on  me  amain. 

Like  glowing  ember  was  his  eye, 
His  beard  like  Spanish  moss; 

"Old  crab,"  said  I,  "if  you'll  brush  by 
I'll  try  to  bear  the  loss." 

"Be  there  a  bird,"  he  made  reply, 
"They  calls  an  albercross?" 

With  his  wild  stare  he  held  me  there; 

It  chilled  me  through  and  through; 
"I'll  miss  my  train,"  I  begged  in  vain, 

"Let  go,  thou  bearded  gnu." 
"If  ye  miss  the  seven-three,"  said  he, 

"  Ye  kin  git  on  the  eight-two." 

He  fixed  his  talons  on  my  cuff: 

"One  year  ago,"  said  he, 
"Cap'  Hanks  agreed  he'd  sailed  enough 

And  built  a  house  next  me; 


'Twas  full  of  souverneers  an'  stuff 
He  fetched  from  over  sea. 

"He'd  everything,  upon  my  word, 

From  an  ugly  Chinee  joss 
To  a  South  Sea  spoon  that  nearly  stirred 

His  own  hot  gravy  sauce. 
But  his  special  pride  were  a  gawky  bird 

He  called  an  albercross. 

"At  first  he  built  a  little  coop 
Whar  she  were  safely  stowed; 

He  clipped  her  wings  and  fed  her  soup — 
Great  catfish!  how  she  growed! 

She  took  to  roostin'  on  the  stoop, 
And  pecked  at  folks,  an'  crowed. 

"Last  month  Cap'  Hanks  he  took  a  trip 

To  be  some  weeks  away; 
He  trusted  me  to  guard  the  ship 

And  that  lank  bird  o'  prey. 
I  swore  to  nurse  her  through  the  pip, 

An'  feed  her  every  day. 


"  1  fed  her  Fish,  as  was  his  Wish, 
Sech  Scraps  as  I  could  get;" 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  763.— 20 


I  TELLS  YE  NAWTHIN*  BUT  THE  FAC'S~ 
'TWAS  THREE  STRONG  MEN  TO  ONE  !" 


"I  fed  her  fish,  as  was  his  wish, 

Sech  scraps  as  I  could  get; 
An'  chicken  bones  an*  sand  an'  stones, 

But,  Gosh!  she  et  and  et. 
I  took  some  pride  in  her  inside — 

'Twas  copper-lined,  I  bet. 

"She  had  a  Roman  style  of  beak 
That  swallered  flounders  whole; 

I  fed  her  ninety  times  a  week, 
An'  twixt  them  meals  she  stole. 

Although  her  look  was  mild  an'  meek, 
I  fed  her  with  a  pole. 

"Sam  Tibbs,  who  lives  next  door  but  one — 

His  temper's  kinder  quick — 
Set  out  his  goldfish  in  the  sun; 

She  et  'em  at  a  lick. 
She  et  each  day  what  come  her  way, 

An'  nawthin'  made  her  sick. 

"Cap*  Higgins  lost  a  ten-pound  ham, 

An'  Cap'  Ezekiel  Hall 
He  hed  a  scoop-net  full  of  clam — 

She  et  the  net  an'  all. 
All  through  that  street  the  folks  you'd  meet 

Was  comin'  round  to  call. 

"Last  noon,  when  I  got  home,  I  found 
That  things  hed  growed  intense; 

A  deppytation  set  around 
A-whittlin'  on  the  fence; 

They  all  was  men  that  Jumbo-hen 
Hed  put  to  some  expense. 

"Cap'  Higgins  broke  the  pause  an'  spoke: 

'Us  all  was  friends  fer  years, 
But  that  thar  bird,  upon  my  word, 

Has  set  us  by  the  ears. 
So  us  or  she,  by  Gum!'  sez  he, 

'Must  leave  this  vale  of  tears.' 


"The  looks  of  all  of  'em  was  bad — 

They  wasn't  there  fer  play; 
Thinks  I,  "Tis  eloquence,  my  lad, 

That's  got  to  save  the  day.' 
(I  kinder  allers  thought  I  had 

A  diplomatic  way.) 

"Sez  I,  'Our  busoms  ought  to  stir 

With  joy  an'  civic  pride, 
In  havin'  sech  a  bird  as  her 

A  livin'  by  our  side. 
Observe  her  Roman  beak!  an',  sir, 

Observe  her  haughty  stride!' 

"I  let  the  oratory  rip — 

Sez  I,  'Thet  bird's  a  king! 
You're  jealous  of  my  guardianship; 

Why,  if  her  spread  of  wing 
Ain't  seven  foot  from  tip  to  tip, 

I'll  eat  the  bird,  by  Jing!' 

"I  didn't  mean  it,  goodness  knows, 

'Twas  just  a  way  of  speech, 
But  all  ter  once  my  courage  froze 

As  each  one  winked  at  each. 
They  gits  a  yardstick,  and  they  goes 

To  learn  that  birdie's  reach. 

"Sam  Tibbs,  I  see,  gits  out  an  ax, 
Honed  fer  the  deed  they  done. 

That  low-down  bird  three  inches  lacks, 
And  I'm  too  old  to  run. 

I  tells  ye  nawthin'  but  the  fac's — 
'Twas  three  strong  men  to  one!" 

"Speak  up,"  I  cried,  "thou  gray-faced  man 

Why  art  thou  at  a  loss 
To  tell  thy  tale?    As  in  a  gale 

Thy  timbers  heave  and  toss!" 


EDITOR'S  DRAWER 


157 


He  broke  the  pause — "With  these  here  jaws 
I  et  that  albercross. 

"I  et  her  broiled  an'  stewed  an'  fried — 

An'  fricasseed  on  bread; 
They  fed  me  hash  until  I  cried — 

Two  bullies  held  my  head. 
I  cracks  no  jokes  on  foreign  folks 

That's  forcibully  fed. 

"I've  walked  all  night — I've  got  the  shakes 

Fer  breakin'  of  my  trust. 
My  conscience  an'  my  stomach  aches — 

I  dunno  which  is  wust. 


So  don't  git  mad,  fer  goodness'  sakes; 
I  stopped  ye  cuz  I  must. 

"I  tells  my  tale  along  the  way 

To  git  my  courage  strong; 
Cap'  Hanks  is  coming  home  ter-day — 

He  dunno  nawthin's  wrong. 
I  wrote  him  plain  I'd  meet  his  train 

And  bring  his  bird  along!" 

I  wrenched  me  from  his  grasp  and  ran, 

Nor  paused  to  say  adieu. 
A  madder  and  a  wiser  man, 

I  caught  the  'leven-two. 


At  First  Sight 

DADEREWSKI  tells  of  an  amusing  in- 
cident which  occurred  while  he  chanced 
to  be  dining  at  a  famous  restaurant  in  New 
York.  It  so  happened  that  the  members  of 
a  large  national  trade  association  were  hold- 
ing a  celebration  dinner  in  another  part  of 
the  building,  and  at  the  close  of  the  feast  one 
of  the  guests  made  his  way  to  the  cloak-room, 
where  he  encountered  the  famous  pianist. 

The  new-comer  stared  for  a  long  time  at 
the  fair-haired  Pole,  and  at  last  said: 


"You  are  very  much  like  Paderewski.  Do 
you  know  him?" 

"I  am  Paderewski,"  rejoined  the  other, 
modestly. 

"What!"  shouted  the  stranger,  and,  dash- 
ing at  him,  he  shook  both  his  hands. 

Before  Paderewski  sufficiently  recovered 
from  his  surprise  the  man  stepped  to  the  door 
and,  calling  the  others  of  his  party,  yelled: 
"I  say,  Brown,  Wheeler,  Carey,  all  of  you 
come  here!  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my 
friend  Paderewski." 


The  Yearly  Tribute 


That  Delicious  Moment 


When  you  are  walking  with  your  married  sister  and  her  children 
and  meet  the  beautiful  stranger  you  have  been  so  anxious  to  impress 


Easy 

MISS  WILKINS,  the  primary  teacher,  was 
instructing  her  small  charges. 
"Name  one  thing  of  importance  that  did 
not  exist  a  hundred  years  ago,"  said  the 
teacher. 

Ralph  Franklin,  an  only  child,  who  was 
seated  in  the  front  row,  promptly  arose  and 
answered: 

"Me." 


Hardships  Indeed 

HTHE  class  in  history  was  wrestling  with 
the  terrible  experiences  of  the  Conti- 
nental Army  at  Valley  Forge  when  the 
teacher  asked  some  one  to  describe  the  hard- 
ships of  the  patriot  army.  A  small  girl 
finally  volunteered  an  answer,  brief  and 
comprehensive:  "The  hardships  at  Valley 
Forge  were  very  hard  ships,  they  were  the 
hardest  ships  in  all  the  world!" 


Used  to  Motors 

USTHER'S  aunt  had  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  her  to  cross  the  railroad 
track  where  an  engine  was  puffing  off  steam. 
When  her  attention  was  called  to  the  fireman 
standing  by  it,  who  "wouldn't  let  it  start 


when  a  little  girl  was  on  the  track,"  she  ran 
across  and,  holding  tight  to  auntie's  hand, 
called  back,  "Now  you  can  c'ank  'er  up." 


The  Villanelle 

't  DOTE  upon  the  villanelle, 

Whene'er  the  Muse  I  wish  to  woo;. 
It's  like  a  little  tinkling  bell. 

Since  first  I  learned  to  speak  and  spell, 

And  memorized  a  rhyme  or  two, 
I  dote  upon  the  villanelle. 

In  verse  it  has  no  parallel, 

(Let  captious  critics  cry,  "Pooh-pooh!") 
It's  like  a  little  tinkling  bell. 

Some  persons  love  a  sweetish  smell, 

Others  adore  an  oyster  stew — 
/  dote  upon  the  villanelle. 

It  never  was  a  college  yell, 

And,  favored  by  the  cultured  few, 
It's  like  a  little  tinkling  belle. 

You  see,  it  pays  me  pretty  well, 
And  takes  so  little  time  to  do: 
I  dote  upon  the  villanelle; 
It's  like  a  little  tinkling  bell. 

— W.  T.  Larned. 


EDITOR'S  DRAWER 


159 


The  Story  of  Gracia 
T'HE  long-expected  baby  had  arrived,  and 
the  father  was  invited   in   to  see  his 
little    daughter.    He   had    hoped    that  it 
might  be  a  boy. 

''What  will  you  call  the  little  one,  sweet- 
heart ?"  said  he. 

"I  think  I'll  call  her  Gracia,"  said  the 
mother.    "I  always  have  liked  that  name/' 

"Oh  no!"  said  the  father.  "I  wouldn't 
call  her  Gracia!  It's  such  a  fancy  name. 
Why  not  call  her  Helen,  after  your  mother." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  she. 

So  they  christened  the  baby  Helen. 

In  due  time  another  little  one  was  an- 
nounced, and  the  father  was  invited  in  to  see 
his  second  baby  daughter.  He  longed  ex- 
ceedingly for  a  son  and  heir,  but  was  almost 
reconciled  when  he  looked  at  the  mother 
as  she  cuddled  the  little  girl  to  her  side. 

"What  will  you  name  this  one,  dearest?" 

"I  think  I'll  call  her  Gracia,"  said  the 
mother.    "I  always  have  liked  that  name." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  call  her  that!"  answered 
the  father.  "It's  such  a  foolish  name. 
Why  not  give  her  a  sensible  one.  We  might 
call  her  Ruth  after  my  mother." 

"All  right,"  she  agreed;  "I  think  Ruth 
would  be  a  nice  name  for  her." 


And  the  records  named  her  Ruth. 

In  the  fullness  of  time  a  third  little  one 
awaited  the  disappointed  father's  welcome 
in  the  darkened  chamber. 

"Well,  what  will  you  call  this  one?"  he 
asked,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  baby 
girl. 

"I  think  I'll  call  her  Gracia,"  said 
the  mother.  "I  always  have  liked  that 
name." 

"Oh  no!  I  wouldn't",  he  said.  "Her 
aunt  Bertha  will  be  real  disappointed  if  we 
don't  name  it  after  her." 

"Well,  I  suppose  that's  so,"  answered 
the  mother.    "We'll  call  her  Bertha." 

Time  passed  on,  and  a  fourth  little  one 
came  to  claim  a  welcome.  The  father 
could  hardly  hide  his  grief  when  the  doctor 
announced,  "It's  a  girl,"  but  he  tried  to  look 
pleased  as  he  stepped  softly  into  the  dark- 
ened room.  As  he  pressed  his  wife's  hand 
he  asked,  "And  what  will  you  call  this  little 
-girl?", 

"I  think  I'll  call  her  Gracia,"  said  the 
mother.    "I  always  have  liked  that  name." 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake,  call  her  Gracia!iy 
he  exploded,  "and  perhaps  then  we  can  have 
a  boy!" 

And  she  did  !    And  they  did! 


If  We  All  Attempted  to  Pay  Our  Debt  to  Santa  Claus 


160 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


A  Matter  of  Precaution 
A  CLERGYMAN  in  a  suburban  town  was 
considerably  surprised  to  receive  a  sum- 
mons to  attend  a  woman  who  had  been  taken 
suddenly  ill,  more  particularly  as  he  knew 
she  was  not  of  his  parish,  and  was,  moreover, 
known  to  be  a  devoted  worker  in  another 
church.  A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  he 
was  shown  into  the  sick-room  upon  arriving, 
during  which  time  he  became  engaged  in  con- 
versation with  the  little  boy  of  the  house- 
hold. 

"  It  is  most  gratifying  to  know  that  your 
mother  thought  of  me  in  her  illness,"  said  he. 
"Is  your  minister  out  of  town?" 

"Oh,  no,  answered  the  lad,  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone.  "He's  home;  only  we  thought  it 
might  be  something  contagious  and  we  didn't 
want  to  take  any  chances." 


Proof  Positive 
T  ITTLE  Ada  came  in  to  her  mother  from 
her  play,  and  asked: 

"Have  gooseberries  any  legs,  mother?" 

"Why,  no,  dear,"  replied  the  mother,  "of 
course  not.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

Ada  looked  solemn  as  she  raised  her  face 
to  her  mother's. 

"Why,  then,  mother,"  she  said,  "I've  been 
eatin'  caterpillars!" 


A  Novel  Method 
I  EMMY  WILLIAMS,  a  little  colored  boy, 
was  caught  in  several  petty  delinquen- 
cies and  was  at  last  sentenced  to  a  short  term 
in  the  reform  school,  where  he  was  taught 
to  learn  a  trade. 

Shortly  after  his  return  home,  he  met  a 
prominent  woman,  who  asked: 

"Well,  Lemmy,  what  did  they 
put  you  at  in  prison?" 

"Dey  started  in  to  make  an 
hones'  boy  out'n  me,  ma'am," 
was  the  reply. 

"That's    good,"    replied  the 
woman,    approvingly.    "I  hope 
they  succeeded,  Lemmy." 
"Dey  did,  deedy,  ma'am." 
"And  how  did  they  teach  you  to 
be  honest?"  queried  the  woman. 

"Why,  dey  done  put  me  in  de 
shoe-shop,  ma'am,"  explained  the 
boy,  "nailin'  pasteboard  onter 
shoes  fo'  soles,  ma'am." 


Saved  by  Science 

VOUNG  Francis's  class  at  school 
had  recently  been  undergoing 
instructions  in  hygiene  and  first 
aid  to  the  injured.  It  was  about 
this  time  that  the  lad's  father 
found  it  necessary  to  apply  the 
strap  to  his  offspring.  As  it  was 
about  to  be  administered,  how- 
ever, Francis  interposed  firmly: 

"  Father,  unless  that  instrument 
has  been  thoroughly  and  proper- 
ly sterilized  I  desire  to  protest." 
This  caused  the  old  man  to  pause, 
strap  in  mid-air.  "Moreover," 
continued  Francis,  "the  germs 
that  might  be  released  by  the 
violent  impact  of  leather  upon  a 
porous  textile  fabric,  so  recently 
exposed  to  the  dust  of  the 
thoroughfares,  would  be  apt  to 
affect  you  deleteriously." 

The  strap  fell  from  a  nerveless 
hand. 


A  Christmas  Story  Without  Words 


Too  Open  About  It 

""TWO  little  girls  were  playing  together  one 
morning,  and  another  girl  passed  by. 

"Oh,  she  is  a  horrid  girl!"  said  Marion. 
"  She's  always  wishing  that  she  was  a  boy." 

"Well,"  replied  Flora,  "I'm  sure  I  wish 
I  was,  too." 

"Of  course,"  said  Marion,  "but  she  wishes 
it  out  loud,  so  the  boys  can  hear  her." 


High  Praise 

pLLA,  the  faithful  maid,  was  arranging  her 
mistress's  hair  one  afternoon  when  she 
mentioned  that  she  had  heard  Miss  Allen 
sing  in  the  parlor  the  evening  before. 

"How  did  you  like  her  singing,  Ella?" 
asked  the  mistress. 

"Oh,  mum!"  sighed  the  maid,  "it  was 
grand!   She  sung  just  as  if  she  was  gargling!" 


162 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Unimportant 
ONE  of  the  fair  pas- 
sengers of  a  yachting 
party  observed  that  the 
captain  wore  an  anxious 
look  after  some  mishap  to 
the  machinery  of  the 
craft. 

"What's  the  matter, 
Captain?"  she  inquired, 
solicitously. 

"The  fact  is,"  respond- 
ed the  captain  in  a  low 
voice,  "our  rudder's  brok- 
en." 

"Oh,  my,  don't  fret 
about  that,"  replied  the 
young  woman,  consoling- 
ly. "As  it's  under  the 
water  nearly  all  the  time, 
no  one  will  notice  that." 


—  ^  .  Co^<^V(rJ-  


Lady  Bountiful:  "Poor  man!  You  must  be  half 
frozen.    Here's  one  of  my  husband's  old  evening  vests" 


The  Unwise  Christmas 

^WAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  and 

all  through  the  house 
One  creature  was  stirring,  and  that  was 
a  mouse. 

The  stockings  that  hung  by  the  chimney 
with  care 

He'd  nibbled  the  toes  of  them,  pair  after 
pair. 

He  ate  all  the  candy,  six  candy  canes,  too; 
Not  a  morsel  was  left  when  that  mouse 
had  got  through. 


"Turn  About " 

HPHE  young  wife  ap- 
proached her  husband 
a  few  days  before  Christ- 
mas and  confided  in  a  lit- 
tle whisper: 

"Dear,  I  just  can't  wait 
till  Christmas  to  tell  you 
what  I've  got  you  for  a 
present." 

"Well,  what  have  you 
got  me?"  he  inquired. 

"I've  got  you  a  new 
coffee  percolator,   and  a 
new  pair  of  the  dearest 
lace  draperies  for  my  room.    Now,  what  are 
you  going  to  get  for  me?" 

"Well,"  he  answered,  contemplatively, 
"how  about  a  new  safety  razor  and  a  mug?" 


A  Different  Usage 


The  moral  of  which — if  you  know  what  a 
sight  is 

A  mouse  that  has  perished  of  acute  gas- 
tritis— 

That  Christmas  itself  may  be  called  into 
question 

If  carried  so  far  it  creates  indigestion. 

— Ralph  Bergengren. 


1A/HEN  the  proofs  of  a  certain  new  dic- 
"  tionary  were  sent  to  Yale  University 
for  revision,  suggestions,  etc.,  the  following 
definition  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the 
professors: 

"Belial:  A  word  of  doubtful  meaning  in  the 
Scriptures  .  .  .  worthlessness  .  .  .  wicked- 
ness. .  .  . 

"'Now  the  sons  of  Eli  were  the  sons  of 
Belial  (R.  V.  margin,  wicked  men),  they 
knew  not  the  Lord.' — I  Samuel  ii.,  12." 

This  was  too  good  an  opportunity  to  let 
slip  by.  He  had  only  a  small  space,  but 
that  was  large  enough  to  add  an  additional 
quotation:  "The  sons  of  Belial  had  a 
glorious  time." — Dryden 


Painting  by  C.  E.  Chambers  Illustration  for  "  The  Price  of  Love" 

AS    SHE    ENTERED    HE    LET    THE    NOTES    DROP    INTO    THE    LITTERED  GRATE 


Harper's  Magazine 


Vol.  CXXVIII  JANUARY,  1914  No.  DCCLXJV 


A  Sub-antarctic  Island 


BY  ROBERT  CUSHMAN  MURPHY 

Curator  of  Mammals,  Museum  of  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences 


HE  grayness  of  an  ant- 
arctic spring  day  was 
deepening,  and  the 
watch  at  the  bow  of  the 
Daisy  peered,  with  re- 
newed keenness,  into 
the  tenebrous  mist 
ahead.  The  old,  black,  New  Bedford 
whaling-brig  rolled  jerkily  on  her  light- 
ballasted  keel.  There  was  hardly  enough 
wind  to  fill  her  canvas,  but  the  dull 
waters  of  the  South  Atlantic  were  still 
troubled  by  the  memory  of  a  four  days' 
storm.  Masses  of  brown  kelp  and  scat- 
tered bits  of  worn  floe  ice  heaved  with 
us  on  the  surface  of  the  sea  and  slowly 
fell  astern;  a  gleaming-white  snow-petrel 
(the  first  we  had  seen)  brushed  the  rig- 
ging in  its  flight,  and  three  graceful, 
sooty  albatrosses  circled  round  and 
round  the  vessel,  poising  successively 
above  the  ball  on  the  foretopgallant- 
mast.  Both  the  signs  and  the  reckoning 
told  of  the  proximity  of  land,  and  we 
were  all  expectancy  after  five  months  of 
sperm-whaling  through  three  zones  of 
the  mighty  Atlantic. 
"Land-ho!" 

I  rushed  to  the  bow  at  the  welcome 
cry,  and  gnzed  into  a  monochrome  of 
gray.  Dimly,  gradually,  a  long,  dark 
line  loomed  out,  and  above  it  an  area  of 
intangible  whiteness  blending  with  the 
soft  sky.    Before  we  could  see  distinctly, 

Copyright, "1913,  by  Harper  & 


evening  closed  in  with  a  wet  snow-squall, 
so  we  wore  ship  and  stood  offshore, 
knowing,  however,  that  our  outward 
voyage  was  about  to  end,  for  through 
the  darkening  haze  we  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  blackish  coast  hills  and 
illimitable  snow-fields  of  South  Georgia. 

A  small  speck  near  the  bottom  of  an 
unfamiliar  map  may  be  all  that  South 
Georgia  means  to  most  Americans,  and 
yet  for  more  than  a  hundred  years  Amer- 
ican seafarers  have  voyaged  regularly  to 
that  far-away  isle,  and  some  of  them 
have  grown  wealthy  on  its  spoils.  About 
the  size  of  Long  Island,  New  York,  lying 
in  a  blustery  ocean  twelve  hundred  miles 
east  of  Cape  Horn,  South  Georgia  is  one 
of  the  chain  of  sub-antarctic  islands 
which  almost  encircles  the  south-polar 
axis  of  the  earth.  These  isles  are  bleak, 
treeless,  mountainous,  and  essentially 
antarctic  in  all  features  save  that  their 
fauna  and  flora  possess  an  interest  all 
their  own.  The  islands  form  the  transi- 
tion zone  between  the  south-temperate 
and  the  polar  regions,  the  habitat  of  the 
great-winged  wandering  albatross  and 
the  myriads  of  other  sea  birds  of  the 
southern  hemisphere,  the  breeding- 
grounds  of  fur  seals  and  sea-elephants, 
and  the  range  of  the  southernmost  flow- 
ering plants. 

South  Georgia  was  discovered  and 
named  in  January,  1775,  by  Captain 

Brothers.    All  Rights  Reserved. 


The  Whaling-brig  "Daisy,"  of  New  Bedford 


James  Cook  while  on  his  historic  voyage 
round  the  world  in  H.  M.  S.  Resolution. 
It  had  certainly  been  sighted  and  re- 
ported before  his  time,  perhaps  as  early 
as  the  year  1500,  when  Amerigo  Ves- 
pucci's galleon  was  driven  by  furious 
storms  many  hundred  miles  southeast- 
ward from  Patagonia;  but  it  was  Cap- 
tain Cook  who  first  explored  and  charted 
the  forbidding  coast  of  the  new  land,  and 
who,  going  ashore,  "took  possession  of 
the  country  in  his  Majesty's  name,  un- 
der a  discharge  of  small-arms."  Cook 
believed  at  first  that  he  had  reached  the 
Terra  Incognita  Australis  which  he  was 
seeking,  but  on  finding  the  ice-capped, 
lofty  region  to  be  merely  an  island  of 
seventy  leagues  in  circuit,  by  which,  he 
observed,  no  one  would  ever  be  bene- 
fited, and  which  was  eminently  "not 
worth  the  discovery,"  he  naively  entered 
in  his  journal:  "I  called  this  land  the 
Isle  of  Georgia  in  honor  of  his  Majesty" 
(George  III.).  He  then  proceeded  on 
his  quest  of  the  Antarctic  Continent. 


For  a  century  after  Cook's  voyage  the 
only  visitors  to  South  Georgia  were 
members  of  passing  antarctic  expedi- 
tions, or  lonely  wind-jammers  in  search 
of  seals.  Yankee  mariners,  mainly  from 
the  seaports  of  Connecticut,  were  the 
first  to  disprove  the  great  discoverer's 
statements  concerning  the  utter  worth- 
lessness  of  his  first  antarctic  landfall. 
They  subsequently,  however,  did  all  that 
lay  within  their  power  to  make  the 
island  worthless,  for  during  the  first  few7 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century  they 
killed  more  than  a  million  fur  seals.  In- 
termittent slaughter  since  that  time  has 
completely  extirpated  these  animals  at 
South  Georgia.  By  the  time  the  height 
of  the  fur-seal  massacre  was  over,  the 
"elephant  oil"  harvest  had  commenced 
— that  is,  the  'traffic  in  the  high-grade 
lubricating  oil  made  from  the  blubber  of 
the  antarctic  sea-elephant.  The  num- 
bers of  the  latter  species  were  also  seri- 
ously reduced,  but  its  recent  status  was 
unknown,  and  in  order  to  study  this 


A  SUB-ANTARCTIC  ISLAND 


167 


largest  and  strangest  of  seals,  as  well  as 
to  observe  and  collect  other  forms  of  life 
on  South  Georgia,  I  made  my  long  voy- 
age thither  in  1912.* 

November  24th,  the  morning  after  we 
had  "made  the  land,"  dawned  bright 
and  blue,  a  happy  change  after  the  dismal 
mists  through  which  we  had  been  cours- 
ing. A  thin  fog  half  veiled  the  valley 
glaciers  and  the  bases  of  the  steep,  bare 
coast  ranges,  reddish-brown  in  the  sun- 
shine, but  the  white  mountain  ridges  and 
ice-sheathed  pinnacles  beyond  gleamed 
in  clear  detail  against  the  bluest  of  skies. 
As  we  cruised  before  a  gentle  breeze 
along  shore  we  passed  close  by  several 
dazzling,  water-worn  icebergs,  in  the 
crevices  of  which  the  swelling  seas  made 
symmetrical  mushrooms  of  spray  as  tall 
as  our  masts.  All  about  us  on  our  way 
were  great  numbers  of  water  birds,  the 
kinds  that  had  been  seen  by  Captain 
Cook  on  a  morning  so  many  years  be- 

*  The  expedition  was  sent  out  by  the  Brooklyn 
Museum  of  Arts  and  Sciences  and  the  American 
Museum  of  Natural  History. 


fore.  There  were  blue-eyed  shags  with 
their  immaculate  throats  and  breasts, 
albatrosses  and  petrels  wheeling  over  the 
sea,  and  flocks  of  terns  and  screaming 
kelp  gulls  along  the  shore  rocks.  At 
midday  we  came  abreast  the  entrance  of 
Cumberland  Bay  with  its  background  of 
white,  pointed  mountains,  Mount  Paget 
and  Sugar  Top  rearing  their  unclouded 
outlines  seven  or  eight  thousand  feet  in 
the  midst  of  a  dozen  lesser  peaks.  We 
knew  that  Norwegian  whalemen  had  lo- 
cated within  Cumberland  Bay,  and  we 
lay  in  the  offing  until  the  little  whaling 
steamer  Fortuna  hailed  us  and  took  us  in 
tow.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  dropped 
anchor  in  King  Edward  Cove,  the  "Pot 
Harbor"  of  old-time  sealers. 

The  extent  to  which  the  enterprising 
Norwegians  had  carried  their  industry 
into  the  far  south  was  a  complete  sur- 
prise to  me.  Whaling  at  South  Georgia 
was  instituted  about  ten  years  ago  by 
C.  A.  Larsen,  once  captain  for  both 
Nansen  and  Nordenskjold,  and  leader 
of  the  Jason  antarctic  expedition.  The 


Grytviken  lies  under  high  Hills  at  the  Head  of  King  Edward  Cove 


168 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


success  of  his  whaling  venture  soon  led 
to  the  establishment  of  other  stations  in 
various  fjords  of  the  northern  coast. 
"Grytviken,"  which  is  the  name  of  Cap- 
tain Larsen's  station,  lies  under  high 
hills  at  the  head  of  King  Edward  Cove, 
and  is  a  hamlet  of  considerable  preten- 
sions. There,  in  addition  to  the  "whale 
slip"  and  oil  factory,  we  found  docks 
and  a  marine  railway,  dwelling-houses, 
dormitories  for  two  hundred  men,  car- 
pentering and  coopering  shops,  metal- 
workers' forges  and  machine-shops,  cat- 
tle and  poultry  shelters,  a  telephone 
and  electric-lighting  plant,  a  library  and 
chapel,  an  infirmary,  and  other  ameni- 
ties of  civilization.  On  the  west  shore 
were  the  headquarters  of  the  resident 
British  magistrate  and  an  observatory  of 
the  Officina  Mete  otologic  a  Argentina. 
When  we  first  entered  the  residence  of 
Captain  Larsen 
and  his  staff  our 
illusions  of  the 
rude,  inclement 
antarctic  were 
shattered  for  the 
time  by  luxuriant 
palms  and  blos- 
soming plants 
which  banked  the 
walls  and  windows 
of  the  rooms.  A 
glance  through 
the  window  of  the 
billiard-room 
brought  us  still 
more  within  the 
pale  of  civiliza- 
tion, for 

"The  maid  was  in 
the  garden  hang- 
i  n  g  up  the 
clothes." 

She  was  the  sole 
representative  of 
her  sex  on  the  is- 
land, however,  as 
we  a  f  terwa  rd 
learned. 

The  whaling  industry  at  South  Geor- 
gia is,  of  course,  of  the  modern  Nor- 
wegian type,  the  whales  being  killed 
with  bomb-harpoons  shot  from  cannon. 
Through  the  kindness  of  Captain  Larsen, 
whose  courtesy  and  hospitality  were 
unfailing,  I  spent  twenty- four  hours 


Wandering  Albatrosses  at  their  Nest 


on  board  the  Fortuna,  the  first  whale 
steamer  that  ever  hunted  in  South  Geor- 
gia waters.  When  we  arrived,  about  the 
middle  of  a  bright  December  forenoon  at 
the  bank  where  the  whales  feed,  some 
thirty-five  miles  off  the  coast,  we  saw  an 
astonishing  number  of  spouts  in  all  direc- 
tions, the  thin,  high  spouts  of  finback 
whales  being  readily  distinguishable 
from  the  bushy  spouts  of  the  fatter, 
more  desirable  humpbacks.  Eleven 
other  steamers  were  within  sight  of  us 
when  we  began  hunting,  and  often  two 
or  three  would  start  in  pursuit  of  the 
same  spout.  After  much  manoeuvering 
Captain  Lars  Anderson  succeeded  in 
bringing  the  Fortuna  s  prow  over  a  pair 
of  rising  humpbacks,  and,  tipping  up  the 
breech  of  the  swivel-gun,  he  sent  the 
eighty-pound,  bomb-pointed  harpoon 
crashing  into  the  lungs  of  the  larger  ani- 
mal. The  hemp 
harpoon  line, 
coiled  on  a  plat- 
form in  front  of 
the  cannon, 
unwound  more 
quickly  than  the 
eye  could  follow, 
and  almost  as  soon 
as  the  smoke  had 
cleared  away  the 
whale  lay  dead 
upon  the  surface. 
The  second  whale, 
which  had  dived 
at  the  discharge, 
rose  near  by  and 
lingered  near  its 
mate  for  a  few 
moments,  but 
made  off  before 
the  gun  could  be 
reloaded.  For  just 
such  cases  as  this 
the  newest  steam- 
ers are  equipped 
with  two  guns,  one 
on  either  side  of 
the  bow.  During 
the  whole  morning  of  this  day  on  the 
Georgia  banks  the  distant "  bang !  bang !" 
of  harpoon-guns  was  unceasing,  and  we 
were  continually  crossing  the  bows  of 
steamers  lying-to,  winching  in  struggling 
whales,  or  making  their  catches  fast 
alongside  with  fluke  chains.    We  passed 


The  "Daisy"  stationed  in  Cumberland  Bay  under  the  Shelter  of  Mt.  Paget 


others  of  the  bloodthirsty  little  vessels 
with  two  or  three  huge  carcasses  trailing 
on  either  side,  and  the  point  of  a  harpoon 
projecting  ominously  from  the  gun, 
ready  for  more.  By  day  the  Fortuna 
herself  was  towing  three  air-distended 
humpbacks,  one  of  which  had  cost  two 
harpoons.  Sometimes  even  three  or 
more  shots  are  required  to  kill  one  whale, 
and  the  gunner  always  notches  the  dead 
whale's  fluke  stump  once,  twice,  or 
thrice,  to  indicate  the  number  of  irons, 
in  order  that  the  flensers  may  subse- 
quently recover  them. 

From  the  Fortuna  s  bridge  the  view  of 
South  Georgia,  lying  forty  miles  to  the 
southward  in  the  full  rays  of  the  noon 
sun,  was  magnificent.  The  atmosphere 
was  of  rare  clearness,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
one  could  almost  toss  a  stone  to  the 
steeps  of  those  sparkling  alps.  But  the 
vista  was  of  short  duration,  for  presently 
the  sleety,  chilly  mist  of  the  southern 
ocean  rolled  upon  us,  and  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  day  we  twisted  in  calm, 


ghostly  grayness  through  the  squadron 
of  our  dimly  seen  companion  steamers, 
the  cannon  reports  becoming  less  and 
less  frequent,  and,  like  Captain  Cook's 
Resolution  of  old,  we  were  encompassed 
by  a  vast  number  of  "blue  petrels,"  or 
whale-birds,  whose  food  consists  of  the 
same  "kril"  (crustaceans)  on  which  the 
various  species  of  whalebone  whales  sub- 
sist. These  petrels  were  about  us  in 
such  incredible  numbers,  I  venture  to 
say  millions,  that  they  resembled  the 
flakes  of  a  snow-storm,  and  several  were 
knocked  into  the  water  by  every  dis- 
charge of  a  harpoon-gun.  Tens  of  thou- 
sands of  wandering  albatrosses,  molly- 
mokes,  night  petrels,  Mother  Carey's 
chickens,  and  Cape  Horn  pigeons  were 
likewise  in  the  murky  air  and  on  the 
water.  All  the  swimming  birds  took 
wing  in  parting  clouds  before  the  steam- 
er's bow  except  the  albatrosses,  which 
preferred  to  paddle  to  one  side,  at  the 
risk  of  being  run  down,  rather  than  to 
undertake  the  exertion  of  launching  into 


Hauling  a  Finback  Whale  ashore 


flight.  Many  of  the  albatrosses  were 
"gamming" — that  is,  meeting  in  flocks 
on  the  water,  rubbing  their  bills  together, 
raising  their  longest  of  wings,  and  chat- 
tering and  squealing  to  their  heart's  con- 
tent. Penguins,  too,  were  about  in  great 
numbers,  but  visible  only  as  momentary 
flashes  whenever  they  leaped  porpoise- 
like above  the  surface.  The  Fortuna 
took  no  more  whales  that  day.  At  eve- 
ning we  headed  toward  Cumberland  Bay, 
and  after  an  excellent  supper,  including 
a  penguin-egg  omelet,  I  turned  into  my 
snug  berth.  We  arrived  at  Grytviken 
about  three  o'clock  next  morning,  and  as 
soon  as  the  whales  had  been  moored  the 
Fortuna  stood  out  to  sea.  Following  a 
more  successful  day's  hunt,  I  have  seen 
this  good  little  steamer  come  laboring 
into  port  surrounded  by  a  raft  of  nine  or 
ten  whales. 

The  country  around  Cumberland  Bay 
is  representative  of  most  that  South 
Georgia  affords  of  geological  features  and 
vegetation.  The  folded,  clay-slate  strata 
of  the  hills,  reddened  by  iron  oxide  and 
whitened  by  rifts  of  snow,  are  rugged  and 


bare,  but  the  lower  tracts  are  well  cov- 
ered with  tussock  grass,  the  red  flower 
heads  of  "Kerguelen  tea"  (Accena),  a 
few  ferns,  and  a  variety  of  brilliantly 
colored  mosses  and  lichens.  A  sheltered 
lake  region  lying  in  an  ancient  moraine 
near  the  west  fjord  of  the  bay  is  particu- 
larly attractive.  Meadows  of  delicate 
grass  and  pillowy  mosses  watered  by 
clear  snow  streamlets,  over  which  swarms 
of  Mayflies  tremble  in  the  sunshine, 
make  one  forget  the  latitude;  and  the 
bold,  shrubless  landscape  possesses  a 
unique  charm.  To  one  standing  on  the 
farthest  headland  below  the  west  fjord 
moraine,  the  view  is  extremely  beautiful. 
In  the  foreground  are  the  rough  and 
crumbling  rocks  covered  with  gray  and 
orange  lichens,  and  footed  with  strands 
of  golden  brown  kelp  upon  which  the 
ice-filled  ocean  breaks.  Beyond  are  roll- 
ing tussock  knolls  with  their  blossoming 
grass,  and  dotted  among  them  the  quiet 
blue  lakes  contrasting  with  the  brighter, 
greener  bay.  Close  on  the  left  a  jagged 
range  of  dark,  bare  rock  shuts  in  the 
scene,  and  there,  on  talus  slopes  six  or 


A  SUB-ANTARCTIC  ISLAND 


171 


seven  hundred  feet  up,  the  shy  kelp- 
gulls  gather  and  watch  trespassers 
among  their  lakes  helow.  Behind  the 
lakes  the  verdant,  irregular  valley,  with 
its  network  of  rills  and  cascades,  rises 
just  high  enough  to  show  only  the  snowy 
peaks  of  the  distant  inland  mountains. 

Six  glaciers  come  down  to  the  sea  in 
Cumberland  Bay,  the  largest  of  which  is 
Nordenskjold  Glacier,  in  the  south  fjord. 
From  the  face  of  this,  and  the  others,  ice 
is  continuously  breaking  with  a  perpen- 
dicular cleavage,  filling  the  bay  with 
floes  that  drift  hither  and  thither  before 
the  wind.  More  rarely  a  large  piece, 
worthy  the  name  of  berg,  sunders  off 
entire  and  sails  away  gloriously  until 
stranded  on  a  lee  shore,  where  the  har- 
rying waves  soon  undermine  it.  The 
south  coast  of  the  island,  which  never 
knows  much  sunshine,  owing  to  the  lofti- 
ness and  sharp  incline  of  the  mountains, 
gives  birth  to  icebergs  of  the  grand, 
ocean-ranging  type.  The  fragmentary 
ice,  which  I  met  constantly,  to  the  peril 
of  my  dory,  in  South  Georgia  bays,  is 
curiously  marked  and  worn  by  the  water. 
It  commonly  assumes  bowl  shapes,  with 
staghorn-like  fronds  projecting  above  the 
rim.    Other  pieces  are  roughly  spher- 


ical chunks,  but  in  either  case  the  flinty 
surface  is  evenly  pitted  all  over  with 
polygonal  facets — like  an  insect's  com- 
pound eye.  In  the  upper  mountain  val- 
leys about  Cumberland  Bay  are  numer- 
ous hanging  glaciers  whence  streams  of 
water  tumble  down  all  the  gullies.  Some 
of  these  valleys  contain  also  sloping 
snow-fields,  where  on  Sundays  and  moon- 
lit evenings  throughout  the  year  the 
hard-working  Scandinavian  whalemen 
can  enjoy  their  national  pastime  of 
skiing. 

The  principal  business  of  the  Daisy  s 
captain  was  to  stow  away  for  the  second 
time  in  the  old  brig's  hold  a  cargo  of 
sea-elephant  oil.  The  Cumberland  Bay 
region  had  ceased  to  be  good  hunting- 
ground  for  these  much-persecuted  seals, 
and  so,  in  mid-December,  the  Daisy  got 
under  way  for  regions  more  primeval. 
Old  Glory,  the  blue  cross  of  Norway,  and 
the  Union  Jack  on  the  snug  little  home 
of  the  British  magistrate  dipped  thrice 
in  gracious  farewell  as  we  passed  from 
the  milky  snow  water  of  King  Edward 
Cove  to  the  blue  outer  bay  and  stood  to 
sea.  Several  days  later  we  dropped  an- 
chor in  the  broad,  hitherto  uncharted 
Bay  of  Isles,  which  lies  near  the  north- 


Thh  Whaling-gun  aboard  the  "Foktuna 


172 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


western  termination  of  South  Georgia, 
beyond  the  last  of  the  whaling  stations. 
As  viewed  from  the  ocean,  it  would  be 
hard  to  imagine  a  more  cheerless  sea- 
board than  this,  for  the  only  green  spots 
visible  were  the  hilly  isles  of  the  bay, 
about  a  dozen  in  number.  The  coast  of 
the  mainland  seemed  bleak  and  frozen 
throughout,  even  in  midsummer,  with 
snow-fields  inclining  four  thousand  feet 
from  the  gorges  of  utterly  inaccessible 
hills  almost  to  the  level  of  the  sea.  Four 
glaciers  came  down  to  the  bay,  all  but 
one  of  which  actually  entered  deep 
water,  the  other  terminating  at  high- 
tide  line  on  a  sandy  beach.  The  western- 
most, and  by  far  the  largest,  of  the  gla- 
ciers, which  I  charted  on  the  first  map 
of  the  Bay  of  Isles  as  "Brunonia  Gla- 
cier," in  honor  of  Brown  University, 
filled  a  profound  valley,  and  the  splendid 
crystal  wall  of  its  front,  several  miles  in 
length,  formed  the  square  coast-line  of 


■ 


An  adult  Cow  Sea-elephant 


the  head  of  the  bay.  Above  it  a  spotless, 
undulating  desert  of  snow,  crossed  by 
nothing  save  freezing  winds  and  evan- 
escent illuminations  and  shadows,  rose 
to  a  far-away  divide  so  soft  and  dim  at 
its  sky-line  that  it  often  blended  invis- 
ibly with  a  background  of  clouds. 

Fortunately,  the  shore  of  the  Bay  of 
Isles  proved  slightly  less  desolate  than 


it  had  promised  from  afar.  Near  our 
anchorage  a  small,  rock-inclosed  basin, 
calm  even  when  the  surf  was  heaviest 
elsewhere,  offered  a  good  landing-place 
for  my  dory,  and  in  a  fairly  dry  gulch 
of  a  neighboring  promontory  we  built 
up  a  drainage  platform  and  pitched  a 
tent  which  for  nine  weeks  was  my  head- 
quarters ashore. 

Below  my  solitary  tent  the  grassy 
bank  sloped  sharply  to  a  milk-colored 
glacial  stream  entering  an  inlet  of  the 
sea  only  fifty  yards  away.   A  quarter  of 
a  mile  across  the  inlet  stood  the  perpen- 
dicular front  of  a  beautiful  valley  glacier, 
coming  down  between  peaked  white  hills 
from  the  lifeless,  silent  interior.  All  sum- 
mer long,  hundred -ton  ice -blocks  fell 
from  its  front  with  the  sound  of  a  Presi- 
dential salute,  and  the  columns  of  its 
ever  freshly  cleaved  surface  were  prisms 
which  flashed  back  each  of  the  dazzling 
colors  that  make  up  sunlight.  Penguins 
bobbed  out  of  the  sea 
below  the  glacier  and 
~  — — 5      Were  my  most  interest- 
ed callers,  for  their  curi- 
osity could  not  resist  a 
human  being.  Sea- 
elephants  crawled  un- 
concernedly   up  the 
stream  below  me  and 
went   to  sleep  among 
the  hummocks  on  the 
beach.     Above  the 
tent,  on  the  plateau  of 
the  little  promontory, 
seven    pairs    of  alba- 
trosses carried  on  their 
courtship  and  nesting, 
along  with   giant  pe- 
trels, skuas,  kelp-gulls, 
and   the   pretty  little 
antarctic    titlarks,  the 
only  land  birds  of  the 
far  South,  whose  cheer- 
ful song  was  almost  the 
sole    homelike  sound. 
For  a  naturalist  the  situation  could  not 
have  been  improved  upon. 

The  herds  of  sea-elephants  distributed 
over  near  beaches  were  a  source  of  con- 
tinual interest.  The  "pups,"  as  these 
offspring  of  "bull"  and  "cow"  sea- 
elephants  are  incongruously  termed  by 
sealers,  had  been  born  early  in  the  South- 
ern spring,  and  by  the  time  of  our  arrival 


A  "Catch"  of  Whales  in  the  Slip  at  Grytvikex 


had  become  rather  independent,  fre- 
quently entering  the  water  and  playing 
with  one  another  in  schools,  particularly 
at  night.  During  the  day  whole  nurseries 
of  fat  pups  four  or  five  feet  in  length  lay 
asleep  on  their  sides  or  backs,  often 
piled  one  upon  another.  Even  when  I 
walked  among  them  and  stepped  over 
them,  they  usually  slumbered  as  though 
anesthetized,  rarely  stirring  except  to 
scratch  themselves  with  the  nails  of 
their  flippers,  or  to  yawn.  A  vigorous 
prod  would  arouse  them,  but,  after  mo- 
mentarily attempting  to  look  ferocious 
by  showing  their  ridiculous  little  peg- 
like teeth,  they  would  fall  back  again 
with  closed  eyes  and  a  sigh  of  resigna- 
tion. They  did  not  object  very  seriously 
even  to  having  their  chins  scratched. 

The  fathers  and  mothers  lay  apart 
from  the  weaned  pups,  most  of  the  cows 
beside  a  few  of  the  larger  bulls.  The  lat- 
ter were  huge  beasts,  some  of  them  meas- 
uring eighteen  or  more  feet  in  length, 
with  a  girth  but  slightly  less.  Their 
seamed  necks  and  breasts  were  covered 
with  fresh  lacerations  as  well  as  innu- 

Vou  CXXVIII.— No.  764.-22 


merable  old  scars,  marks  of  constant  bat- 
tles with  rivals.  Whenever  I  approached 
too  closely  they  reared  up  on  their 
fore  flippers,  thrashed  their  hinder  parts 
about,  contracted  their  trunk-like  snouts 
into  tight,  bulging  folds,  opened  their 
pink  maws  to  an  angle  equaled  among 
all  mammals  only  by  the  Pleistocene 
saber-toothed  tigers,  and  finally  uttered 
their  vocal  expression  of  displeasure, 
which  cannot  be  suggested  by  any  Eng- 
lish word. 

Bull  sea-elephants  settle  the  question 
of  possession  of  the  cows  by  fighting; 
but  they  fight  from  other  motives  as 
well,  or,  one  might  be  tempted  to  say, 
from  no  motives  at  all.  They  are  in- 
stinctively ill-tempered  mammals,  and 
seem  never  to  become  accustomed  to  the 
society  of  other  creatures.  They  snarled, 
for  instance,  altogether  unnecessarily,  at 
any  poor  familiar  penguin  which  hap- 
pened to  wTalk  near  them  along  the  beach 
of  the  inlet.  From  the  tent  I  frequently 
saw  half-grown  bulls  wake  from  peaceful 
naps  and  instantly  start  quarrels  with 
near  neighbors;  and  the  youngest  pups 


174 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


were  quite  as  likely  as  their  elders  to  be 
rearing  and  bumping  against  one  anoth- 
er, glaring  with  infantile  ferocity  into  one 
another's  eyes.  In  the  ordinary  con- 
tests of  the  bulls,  which  seemed  to  be  of 
a  purely  calisthenic  nature,  the  two 
champions  met  closely  and  reared  up 
until  only  the  hinder  part  of  the  belly 
rested  on  the  ground,  and  then  hurled 
themselves  one  against  the  other,  clash- 
ing their  breasts  and  raking  each 
other's  thick-skinned  necks  with  their 
heavy  lower  canines,  at  the  same  time 
flinging  their  tail  ends  into  the  air. 
Occasionally  they  came  to  a  clinch  by 
pressing  the  sides  of  their  necks  together, 
and  so  took  a  breathing-spell.  All  the 
motions  were  clumsy  and  lumbering;  a 
good  deal  of  threatening  and  sputtering 
occurred  between  the  clashes,  and  some- 
times they  merely  rose  up  on  the  toes  of 
their  fore  flippers  and  stood  rigidly,  with 
heads  held  back  and  mouths  wide  open, 
until  each  collapsed  from  weariness  with- 
out a  blow  having  been  struck.  Thor- 


oughly angry  bulls,  however,  clamped 
jaws  on  their  rivals,  badly  lacerating 
one  another's  pelts.  I  saw  one  big  fellow 
which  had  lost  a  good  portion  of  the  wall 
of  his  snout.  If  a  group  of  sea-elephants 
were  annoyed,  they  sometimes  gave  way 
to  uncontrolled  passion,  thrashing  about 
blindly,  biting  the  ground,  running 
amuck,  and  tearing  the  backs  of  all  their 
companions.  When  I  shouted  and  swung 
my  arms  in  front  of  a  bull,  vexing  it  until 
it  had  become  thoroughly  excited,  its 
behavior  recalled  a  toy  rocking-horse, 
for  the  enraged  seal  swayed  in  a  similar 
manner,  first  rising  until  its  fore  flippers 
were  far  above  the  ground,  then  rolling 
forward  until  its  hind  flippers  were 
curved  up  over  its  back,  but  as  a  rule 
only  rocking,  and  not  moving  away  from 
one  situation.  All  the  while  the  beast's 
bloodshot  eyes  were  blazing  with  rage,  the 
trunk  was  drawn  up  into  a  bonnet  above 
the  gaping  mouth,  the  tusks  gnashed 
viciously  on  the  sand,  and  the  whole 
expression  was  truly  hideous.  Generally 


A  bull  Sea-elephant  lying  on  the  Bottom  of  a  fresh-water  Pond 


The  Author's  Camp  at  the  Bay  of  Isles 


their  tactics  with  regard  to  human  beings 
were  wholly  defensive,  but  occasionally 
I  met  a  jealous  or  pugnacious  bull  which 
sought  trouble  from  the  start.  Once  I 
observed  from  a  hiding-place  an  unusu- 
ally fine  sea-elephant  come  out  of  the 
cove  below  my  tent  and  work  its  way  up 
among  the  tussock  hummocks.  I  wanted 
its  skeleton  for  the  Museum,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, had  left  my  rifle  aboard  the 
brig.  However,  as  soon  as  the  lazy 
animal  had  found  a  satisfactory  berth 
and  had  fallen  asleep,  I  descended  all 
unsuspectingly  with  a  camera  and  a  seal- 
lance,  and,  after  making  ready  for  a 
head-on  snapshot,  I  whistled  to  awaken 
the  brute.  The  effect  was  greater  than 
I  had  bargained  for.  It  opened  its  eyes 
casually  enough,  but  instantly,  upon  see- 
ing me,  it  rolled  over  with  a  snort  and 
bounced  toward  me  so  quickly  that  I 
had  barely  time  to  avoid  the  charge.  I 
dodged  aside,  but  it  continued  to  bump 
along  steadily  after  me  with  homicide  in 
its  eye.  Setting  the  camera  on  a  hum- 
mock, I  attacked  my  ardent  pursuer  with 
the  lance,  and  the  brute  snorted  and 
bellowed  as  it  reared  two  or  three  feet 
above  my  head  and  hurled  forward  its 


two  tons  of  weight  in  an  effort  to  crush 
me  to  a  pulp;  but  after  perhaps  five 
minutes  of  desperate  attacking,  lunging, 
dodging,  and  retreating  on  my  part,  the 
great  beast  sank  down  in  a  pond  of  its 
own  blood  and  expired. 

Although  it  was  December,  the  June 
of  the  Southern  world,  when  the  Daisy 
dropped  her  two  enormous  anchors, 
originally  designed  for  vessels  of  thrice 
her  tonnage,  the  skipper's  wisdom  in 
planning  such  substantial  moorings  was 
demonstrated  ere  many  days  had  passed. 
Cape  Horn  may  be  more  notorious  for 
its  gales,  but  South  Georgia  is  no  less 
deserving  of  fame.  Coming  up  from  the 
antarctic  wastes  lying  southwest  of  the 
island,  the  icy  winds  cross  the  barren 
mountain  ranges  and  howl  down  the 
northern  steeps  and  across  the  fjords 
with  such  force  that  sea-water  is  torn 
in  sheets  from  the  surface,  and  the  air  is 
filled  with  water-smoke.  Gales  accom- 
panied by  blinding  snow  and  sleet  are  so 
frequent  that  one  must  always  be  alert; 
a  calm  may  give  place  to  a  blizzard 
without  ten  minutes'  notice.  On  De- 
cember 21st — the  longest  day  of  our 
year,  and  the  windiest,  I  hope — I  went 


176 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


ashore  early  with  the  crews  of  two 
whale-boats,  twelve  men  in  all.  The 
morning  was  quiet  and  gray,  with  light 
westerly  winds,  when  suddenly  we  spied 
the  storm  flag  going  up  on  the  rigging  of 
the  Daisy,  and  immediately  the  experi- 
ence and  discipline  of  south-sea  sailors 
revealed  themselves,  prepared  to  meet 
an  emergency.  A  few  short  commands, 
and  one  of  the  whale-boats,  carried 
quickly  up  the  steep  beach,,  was  half 
filled  with  stones  and  sand,  in  order  that 
it  could  not  be  blown  into  the  sea.  Then 
into  the  second  boat  we  all  sprang,  and 
with  two  men  at  each  of  the  five  long 
oars,  swung  our  bow  toward  the  ship. 
The  cold  sou'wester  struck  us  just  as  we 
started,  after  which  there  seemed  to  be 
as  much  salt  water  in  the  air  as  in  the 
bay,  and  we  were  whisked  along,  pulling 
as  best  we  could  with  heads  bowed  down 
before  the  biting  sleet,  until  we  scurried 
past  the  brig  and  the  end  of  a  rope  flung 
from  the  deck  was  seized  and  made  fast. 
We  swung  alongside,  scrambled  aboard, 
wet  but  safe,  and  hoisted  our  whale-boat 
after  us.  For  the  following  thirty-six 
hours  the  Daisy  tugged  madly  at  her 
cables  while  the  bay  seethed  under  the 
lashings  of  the  wind  and  the  stinging, 
granular  snow.  We  were  cooped  up 
helplessly  on  our  little  vessel,  with  all 
our  hopes  in  two  iron  chains;  but  the 
glorious  albatrosses,  scorning  the  gale, 
were  rioting  over  the  bay,  sailing  like 
superhuman  monoplanes  before,  across, 
against  the  wind,  as  though  all  direc- 
tions were  to  them  down-hill. 

One  afternoon,  when  two  of  our  whale- 
boats  had  gone  to  a  distant  beach,  a 
similar  storm  sprang  up  and  the  crews 
could  not  return.  We  on  board  spent  an 
anxious  night,  striving  to  hope,  however, 
that  the  men  had  seen  the  approaching 
wind  in  time,  and  had  camped  ashore. 
By  dawn  the  gale  had  abated  and  the 
sun  rose  into  a  clear  sky,  yet  from  the 
mast-head  of  the  Daisy  we  could  see  no 
sign  of  boats  or  men.  Going  ashore 
to  my  tent,  which  had  again  been 
blown  flat  by  the  wind,  I  climbed  the 
promontory  and  scrutinized  all  shores  of 
the  Bay  of  Isles  through  field-glasses. 
Eventually  a  group  of  penguin-like  fig- 
ures, standing  disconsolately  on  an  ice- 
bound point  miles  away,  resolved  itself 
through  the  powerful  lenses  into  men. 


Within  an  hour  we  had  them  all  on 
board,  where  their  misery  was  soon  for- 
gotten under  the  effects  of  hot  coffee  and 
warm  berths.  It  seemed  that  the  boats, 
laden  with  sea-elephant  blubber,  had 
been  overtaken  by  the  first  gust  while 
they  were  several  miles  from  land.  The 
blubber  had  been  speedily  thrown  over- 
board, but  the  boats  had,  nevertheless, 
been  driven  helplessly  down  the  long, 
wild  fjord,  and  only  the  utmost  exer- 
tions of  rowers  and  helmsmen  had  kept 
them  from  being  dashed  against  the  ice 
wall  of  Brunonia  Glacier.  In  attempt- 
ing a  landing  on  a  rocky  beach  adjacent 
to  the  glacier,  both  boats  had  been 
stove  in,  the  anchors,  guns,  and  other  out- 
fit lost,  and  the  men  jeft  floundering  in 
the  water.  Fortunately  all  had  reached 
shore,  but  they  had  spent  a  wretched 
night  on  the  beach  in  the  gale  and  the 
wet  snow. 

But,  after  all,  the  prevailing  tempestu- 
ousness  of  the  weather  only  enhanced 
those  rare  summer  days  when  South 
Georgia  lay  in  breathless  calm,  and 
wraith-like  mists  hung  over  the  glaciers 
and  the  glittering  hills;  when  penguins 
sat  bolt- upright  along  the  beach  and 
dozed  away  the  sunny  afternoons;  when 
young  skuas  and  giant  petrels  in  the  nest 
found  their  coats  of  long  down  uncom- 
fortably warm,  and  lay  panting  beneath 
the  sun's  rays.  Once,  late  in  the  sum- 
mer, such  a  clear,  quiet  sunny  day 
lengthened  into  evening  and  then  into 
full  night  without  a  breeze  or  a  snow 
flurry  to  mar  its  beauty.  I  climbed  the 
promontory  after  dark,  startling  a  pack 
of  giant  petrels  which  had  settled  there 
to  sleep.  The  ugly,  clumsy  birds, 
squawking  in  alarm,  dashed  pellmell 
over  the  brink  and  down  the  long  bank 
to  the  sea,  like  the  swine  of  the  Gada- 
renes.  For  the  first  time  at  the  Bay  of 
Isles  I  could  see  the  full  vault  of  the 
Southern  sky  with  all  its  unfamiliar  stars, 
the  mysterious  Clouds  of  Magellan,  and 
in  the  zenith  the  four  luminaries  of  the 
Southern  Cross. 

From  every  isle  and  headland  through 
the  still  night  came  a  sweet,  bell-like 
piping — the  singing  of  numberless  petrels 
and  whale-birds  in  their  burrowed  nests. 
At  South  Georgia  it  took  the  place  of 
the  katydids,  the  whippoorwills,  and  the 
frog  choruses  of  summer  nights  at  home. 


The  Honorable  Sylvia 


BY  HENRY  K  ITCH  ELL  WEBSTER 


|HE  punka  jerked  and 
flapped,  puddling  the 
?  warm,  dead  air  and 
sucking  up,  every  now 
and  then,  a  wavering 
wreath  of  smoke  from 
^sr:31  the  shaded  candles.  It 
did  not  make  things  much  cooler,  unless 
thoughts  of  the  perspiring  coolie  who 
pulled  it  tended  to  produce  that  result. 
From  the  foot  of  her  table  in  the  shabby, 
grandiose  dining-room  of  the  RafHeton 
Residency,  the  Honorable  Sylvia  could 
see,  through  the  open  window,  a  patch 
of  brilliantly  moonlit  lawn  which  had  a 
gray  stone  in  the  middle  of  it. 

She  didn't  mind  the  look  of  it  so  much 
in  the  daytime.  It  was  at  night,  under 
the  moon,  that  it  had  the  power,  some- 
times, to  fascinate  her,  to  hold  her  eyes 
and  not  let  them  get  away.  She  had 
once  or  twice  entertained  the  notion  of 
turning  her  table  around  so  that  she 
couldn't  see  it.  Only,  in  the  first  place, 
her  husband  would  have  wanted  to  know 
the  reason;  and  in  the  second  place,  she 
couldn't  be  sure  that  it  was  not  better 
to  sit  where  she  could  see  it  than  where 
she  could  not. 

She  had  had  two  years  in  which  to  get 
used  to  it  all — to  the  exotic,  paradisaical 
beauty  of  the  hillside  upon  which  the 
Residency  looked  down,  with  its  grass- 
grown  lanes,  its  debauch  of  flowering 
trees  and  shrubs;  the  band  of  indigo  sea 
beyond  the  peninsula  which  locked  the 
harbor,  and  the  mirror  of  brighter  blue 
within  the  harbor  itself,  which  the  count- 
less billions  of  animalculae  that  dwelt  in 
it  turned  to  living  fire  at  night. 

She  was  beginning  to  take  the  people 
for  granted,  too:  the  big,  white-turbaned 
Sikh  police,  with  their  melancholy  black 
faces;  the  small,  shifty,  contemptuous 
Malays — even  the  swarming  Dyaks;  the 
little,  splay-footed,  brass-corseted  wom- 
en, degraded  by  pain  and  labor  and 
abuse  into  a  condition  of  stupidity  that 
one  could  not  call  animal,  and  the  naked 


men  with  their  wiry  thatches  of  hair, 
their  lowering  eyes,  their  bestial,  sav- 
age lips.  She  could  pass  them  in  the 
crowded  little  market  now  without  a 
shudder. 

According  to  the  gossip  of  the  Tropi- 
cal Far  East,  the  Honorable  Sylvia  dis- 
tinctly had  "  made  good."  That  gossip  is 
a  searching  and  terrible  thing,  because 
the  Tropical  Far  East  is  nothing  but  a 
village  vastly  dispersed  in  space.  Your 
nearest  neighbor$may  be  two  hundred 
miles  away,  but  he  remains  your  neigh- 
bor simply  because  there  is  no  one  else 
in  between.  Sylvia's  story  was  bound 
to  be  repeated.  The  daughter  of  a  great 
English  family,  with  a  brilliant  social 
future  before  her,  she  had  fallen  wildly 
in  love  with  young  Carew  during  the 
progress  of  a  tour  of  the  East,  and  in 
spite  of  frantic  appeals  and  of  every 
influence  short  of  force  that  could  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  her  to  prevent  so 
maniacal  a  calamity,  had  stayed  in  the 
East  and  married  him. 

Carew  himself  was  just  an  ordinary, 
upper-middle-class  young  Englishman 
with  a  genius  for  governing  savage  peo- 
ples that  had  taken  him  out  of  the 
ordered  life  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service 
and  caused  him  to  be  loaned  here  and 
there  as  the  services  of  some  such  talent 
happened  to  be  required.  There  is  no 
future,  in  a  big  way,  in  that  sort  of 
thing.  You  do  better  by  sticking  close 
to  the  great  ones  and  pulling  the  right 
sort  of  wires.  Certainly,  Carew  was  no 
sort  of  match  for  an  Earl's  daughter,  and 
that  is  what  Sylvia  was.  But  if  she 
liked  it,  of  course  it  was  no  one  else's 
business. 

The  consensus  of  opinion  had  been 
that  it  couldn't  last  very  long.  A  girl 
like  that  could  never  stand  the  loneli- 
ness, the  monotony,  the  total  isolation 
from  everything  that  made  up  her  own 
world,  which  was  involved  in  living  in 
RafHeton.    RafHeton,  of  all  places! 

People  had  entertained  great  expecta- 


178 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


tions  of  Raffleton  once — thought  it  was 
going  to  be  another  Singapore.  And  the 
memorials  of  these  blighted  expectations 
— the  scale  and  pretension  of  the  shabby 
old  Residency,  for  example — made  its 
present  decay  all  the  more  depressing. 

No,  the  unanimous  verdict  of  the  club 
verandas,  arrived  at  during  the  contem- 
plative imbibition  of  long  gin-gingers, 
was  that  one  of  two  things  would  hap- 
pen: either  Carew  would  behave  like  a 
sensible  man,  chuck  up  his  job  and  go 
back  to  England  with  Sylvia,  where  her 
family  would  have  to  take  care  of  him 
decently,  anyhow;  or  else  the  Honorable 
Sylvia  would  chuck  him  and  go  back 
alone. 

Well,  two  years  had  passed  since  then, 
and  the  verdict  of  the  verandas  had  had 
to  be  reconsidered.  The  Honorable  Syl- 
via had  shown  the  traditional  pluck  of 
her  class.  She  had  sat  tight  and,  ap- 
parently, got  used  to  it.  That  was  about 
as  near  right  as  such  verdicts  ever  are. 

She  had,  indeed,  got  used  to  a  good 
deal.    She  could  ride  out  with  her  hus- 
band to  the  place  where  civilization 
stopped,  see  him  off,  alone,  into  the 
jungle  to  reconcile  two  warring  villages, 
and  canter  back  through  the  town  with- 
out letting  the  curious  observe  a  single 
tear-mark  or  a  look  of  apprehension  on 
her  face.    She  could  spend  days  in  the 
Residency  with  no  company  but  an  im- 
perturbable Chinese  butler  and  a  garru- 
lous Malay  maid,  and  never  once  betray 
the  panics  of  loneliness  that  beset  her 
sometimes,  even  now.   She  had  got  used 
to,  though  she  still  resented,  the  watch- 
ful curiosity  of  the  other  members  of 
their  little  official  society,  alert  for  some 
token  that  she  regretted  her  bargain;  to 
the  jealousy  of  the  wife  of  the  Superin- 
tendent of  Police,  to  gossip,  to  queer 
visitors,  to  the  spectacle  of  a  daily  con- 
sumption of  alcohol  on  the  part  of  most 
of  the  men,  and  some  of  the  women,  of 
their  circle  that  made  occasional  drunk- 
enness impossible.    She  had  got  used  to 
the  regular  rainstorm  that  came  every 
day  at  eleven  o'clock  and  was  over  at 
two,  to  the  dampness  that  grew  a  green 
mold  on  patent-leather  shoes  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  to  canned  butter  and  con- 
densed milk,  and  to  the  odor  of  the 
durian,  a  fruit  which  throws  connois- 
seurs into  ecstasies,  but  which  always 


leads  the  uninitiated  to  suspect  that 
there  is  something  wrong  with  the 
drains. 

Chief  among  the  items  to  which  the 
Honorable  Sylvia  had  not  got  used,  was 
her  husband.  She  had  not,  in  the  first 
place,  at  all  got  over  being  wildly  in  love 
with  him.  One  need  hardly  be  told  that 
it  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  ex- 
pressed itself  in  half-furtive  public  en- 
dearments, nor  in  looks  and  sighs;  and 
she  was  neither  servile  nor  tyrannous  in 
her  attitude  toward  him.  There  was 
nothing  on  her  sleeve  for  the  daws  to 
peck  at.  But  the  exaggerated  sensitive- 
ness to  him  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
ecstatic  beginnings  of  a  love  affair,  the 
almost  painfully  vivid  consciousness  of 
him,  of  his  moods  and  his  desires,  of  his 
mere  physical  nearness  or  farness  away, 
the  passionate  eagerness  to  give  him  and 
be  to  him  all  he  wanted,  and  to  fend  pain 
and  danger  and  disappointment  away 
from  him,  were  all  just  what  they  had 
been  in  those  first  blinding  days  after 
they  had  found  each  other. 

That  being  so,  one  would  have  ex- 
pected her  to  resent  a  little  the  fate  that 
had  thrown  two  vagrant  Americans  upon 
their  hospitality  and  made  them  guests 
to-night  at  her  dinner-table.  Carew  had 
come  back  only  the  day  before  from  a 
two  weeks'  excursion  into  the  jungle 
upon  an  errand  of  peculiar  danger  and 
difficulty.  He  had  come  back  to  find 
the  South  Asiatic  Squadron  of  the  Brit- 
ish fleet  at  anchor  in  the  Raffleton  har- 
bor, and  the  admiral  and  his  staff  being 
officially  entertained  at  the  Residency 
by  his  wife.  He  had  stuck  a  couple  of 
scratches  together  with  adhesive  plaster, 
got  out  of  khaki  into  ceremonial  white, 
and  taken  part  in  a  lawn  party,  a  dinner, 
and  an  impromptu  ball,  at  which  the 
meager  resources  of  their  official  society 
had  been  supplemented  by  a  handful  of 
planters  and  their  wives,  who  had  either 
come  down  the  river  in  their  motor- 
boats,  or  along  the  little  narrow-gage, 
weed-grown  railway  on  their  private 
hand-cars,  pushed  by  perspiring  coolies. 

The  squadron  had  steamed  away  only 
this  afternoon,  and  the  planters  had  re- 
turned to  their  plantations.  But  there 
remained  two  wandering  Americans,  a 
man  and  his  wife,  who  had  come  into 
Raffleton  about  the  time  the  squadron 


THE  HONORABLE  SYLVIA 


179 


did,  in  a  ramshackle  launch  which  they 
had  hired  or  borrowed  from  the  Brooks 
Mines,  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  down 
the  coast.  You  couldn't  let  people,  who 
were  any  sort  of  people  at  all,  stay  at 
the  Rest  House  without  some  attention, 
so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  insist 
on  bringing  them  up  to  the  Residency 
for  dinner. 

The  visitors  had  made  a  polite  re- 
sistance, of  course,  but  equally  of  course 
they  had  yielded  in  the  end.  And 
here  they  sat  now  at  her  table.  She 
hadn't  scrutinized  them  very  closely, 
was  aware  of  them  hardly  more  than 
as  presences  interposed  between  her- 
self and  her  husband  and  keeping  him 
a  long  way  off.  The  thing  that  startled 
Sylvia,  that  made  her  heart  beat, 
was  the  realization  that  she  was  glad 
to  have  them  there  in  that  capacity. 
Glad,  actually  glad,  of  a  buffer  between 
herself  and  John  Carew;  glad  that  the 
man  was  keeping  her  husband's  eyes 
away  from  her,  making  him  talk,  finding 
out  what  it  meant  to  govern  a  race  of 
savages  single-handed. 

Even  when  the  woman  began  talking 
about  the  General  Reyes,  and  drew  Syl- 
via's gaze  away  from  that  gray  stone  on 
the  lawn  to  confront  a  present  situation 
that  might  have  an  element  of  danger 
in  it,  she  still  felt  that  the  subject  was  a 
respite,  because  it  engaged  her  husband's 
attention. 

The  General  Reyes  was  an  American 
cable  ship,  and  the  expectation  had  been 
that  she  would  make  a  call  at  RafHeton. 
It  was  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her  here 
and  getting  ttansportation  on  her  to  one 
of  the  way-stations  of  civilization,  that 
these  two  guests  of  theirs  had  borrowed 
the  Brooks'  launch  and  come  to  Raffle- 
ton  themselves.  As  it  turned  out,  the 
General  Reyes  had  run  into  the  harbor 
the  day  before  the  squadron  arrived,  but 
stopped  only  long  enough  to  send  a  boat 
ashore  for  her  mails  and  then  steamed 
away  again,  under  urgent  orders  from 
Manila. 

"We  felt  pretty  blank  about  that," 
the  man  observed,  picking  up  the  story 
of  their  misadventure.  "It  seemed  just 
at  first  as  if  we'd  never  find  a  ship  bound 
our  way.  We  thought  we  might  about 
as  well  get  a  sarong  and  a  kameja  apiece 
and  settle  down  here  permanently — 


forget  that  there  was  such  a  place  as 
Illinois  on  the  map." 

The  Honorable  Sylvia  got  herself  to- 
gether. 

"You  can't  expect  us  to  be  very  sym- 
pathetic about  things  like  that,"  she 
said,  "because  if  they  didn't  happen, 
we'd  hardly  ever  have  any  visitors  at  all. 
And  as  long  as  we've  just  missed  Cap- 
tain Burch,  it  is  only  right  that  you 
should  be  provided  instead." 

And  then  Carew  wanted  to  know  if 
they  had  known  the  captain  very  long. 
"He's  a  great  friend  of  ours,"  he  added. 

Their  guests  explained  the  situation. 
They  had  only  just  met  Captain  Burch. 
It  was  his  two  passengers,  the  Thorn- 
dyke-Martins,  whom  they  knew.  The 
four  of  them  had  come  all  the  way 
around  from  Naples  together. 

The  Honorable  Sylvia  expressed  a 
mild  curiosity  to  know  what  the  Thorn- 
dyke-Martins  were  like.  "One  hears 
such  a  lot  about  them,  of  course,"  she 
explained. 

"It's  fortunate  for  us  you  don't  know 
them,"  said  the  woman.  "You'd  never 
take  us  for  substitutes  if  you  did.  She's 
lovely.  Very  simple,  for  all  her  clothes, 
and  lots  of  fun." 

"It  would  have  been  a  treat  to  get  a 
good  look  at  her,"  Sylvia  admitted. 
"We  take  the  fashion  magazines  out 
here  and  order  our  clothes  out  of  them 
by  mail,  from  London.  They  never  get 
here,  and  when  they  do.  ..."  She 
stopped  there,  rather  abruptly,  and 
added,  "I  suppose  we  think  twice  as 
much  about  them  as  she  does." 

"She  likes  to  buy  them,"  the  other 
woman  explained,  "but  after  that  she 
loses  interest.  She  bought  some  things 
in  Paris  that  have  been  following  her 
ever  since  and  haven't  caught  up  yet — 
or  hadn't  at  Singapore,  and  she  didn't 
seem  to  care.  But  of  course,  when 
you've  got  to  the  point  where  anything 
is  smart  just  because  you've  got  it  on, 
you  don't  need  to  worry." 

Sylvia  didn't  mean  to  look  at  her  hus- 
band— meant  not  to  look  at  him,  and 
just  for  that  reason  she  did.  She  met 
his  eye  and  interpreted  the  affectionate, 
quickly  suppressed  smile  that  flashed  for 
a  moment  across  his  face.  It  said,  she 
knew,  "That's  true  of  you,  too,  you  won- 
der, you  delight!    Perhaps  the  clothes 


180 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


you  ordered  by  mail  from  London  were 
awful,  just  as  you  said,  until  you  put 
them  on.  But  after  that  no  one  would 
have  known  it,  because  you  were  so 
beautiful  in  them  that  they  became  a 
part  of  you." 

Carew  wasn't  articulate  enough  to 
have  said  a  thing  like  that,  but  he  could 
mean  it  and  look  it,  and  Sylvia  knew 
what  he  meant.  She  felt  herself  flush  up 
to  the  hair,  a  deep,  tingling  flush  that 
you'd  have  thought  they'd  all  notice. 
She  had  a  terrifying  impulse  to  blurt  out 
the  truth,  here,  now,  in  the  presence  of 
their  guests,  when  he  couldn't  say  any- 
thing until  afterward.  The  strength  of 
the  impulse  frightened  her  pale  again. 
And  then  Carew  turned  his  eyes  away. 

The  American,  evidently  under  the 
impression  that  the  topic  of  clothes,  now 
fairly  launched,  would  keep  the  women 
amused  for  a  while  and  give  him  a  chance 
to  get  some  more  real  information  out  of 
the  Resident,  turned  to  him  and  asked  a 
question  about  head-hunting.  But  his 
wife  wanted  to  hear  about  the  head- 
hunters,  too. 

So  Sylvia  got  a  chance  to  pull  herself 
together.  Over  her  husband's  shoulder, 
out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  moon- 
silvered  lawn,  she  deliberately  fixed  her 
eyes  on  that  grim-looking  gray  stone. 
That  other  woman  out  there — wife  of 
the  man  who  had  been  Resident  at 
Raffleton  before  her  husband  came — if 
Sylvia  could  tell  her  the  story,  now,  she'd 
understand. 

Carew  was  glad  to  talk  about  the 
head-hunting.  His  attitude  toward  his 
Dyaks  was  a  little  that  of  a  parent 
toward  a  houseful  of  unruly  children. 
He  disciplined  them  himself  when  it  was 
necessary,  but  didn't  want  them  misun- 
derstood by  outsiders. 

"There's  one  thing  you've  got  to  get 
firmly  in  mind  to  begin  with,"  he  said, 
"and  that  is  that,  from  the  Dyaks'  point 
of  view,  head-hunting,  if  it's  a  crime  at 
all,  is  a  crime  against  property.  A  man 
has  a  property  interest  in  his  own  head, 
of  course,  and  equally  in  any  other  head 
he  can  collect.  If  he  can  show  fifty  of 
them — fifty  human  heads,  hanging  by 
the  hair  and  drying  in  clusters  on  poles 
outside  his  hut,  he's  a  man  of  considera- 
tion in  the  community,  much,  I  suppose, 
as  one  of  your  railway  magnates  is  with 


you.  Everybody  else  wants  to  take 
them  away  from  him,  and  nobody  quite 
dares.  Of  course,  in  a  country  like  this, 
where  people's  physical  wants  are  very 
few,  property  is  practically  all  trophies." 

"You  mean,  then,"  asked  the  Amer- 
ican, "that  when  a  man  goes  out  and 
cuts  off  somebody's  head,  the  act  is  not 
dictated  by  any  ill-feeling  against  the 
victim;  it's  simply  a  question  of  adding 
to  the  man's  possessions?" 

Carew  nodded,  and  the  American 
looked  a  little  startled.  He  had  meant 
the  question  ironically  and  had  not  ex- 
pected a  direct  affirmative  answer  like 
that. 

"Here's  an  illustration,"  Carew  went 
on.  "One  of  the  villages  back  here  in 
the  jungle  broke  loose  some  time  ago, 
raided  another  village  twenty  miles 
away,  and  took  nine  heads." 

"Fresh  heads?"  asked  the  American. 

"They  took  them  from  the  shoulders 
of  the  villagers  and  not  from  the  poles 
in  front  of  their  houses,  if  that's  what 
you  mean,"  said  Carew.  "Well,  the 
people  of  the  second  village,  instead  of 
attempting  a  direct  reprisal,  came  down 
and  complained  to  me,  which  is  what  I 
always  try  to  get  them  to  do.  I  went 
up  to  the  first  village,  made  them  give 
up  their  nine  heads,  and  took  them  back 
to  the  village  they  had  been  taken  from. 
That  made  everything  all  right  again — 
averted  a  feud  between  the  two  villages 
that  might  have  gone  on  for  years." 

Both  their  guests  were  looking  puz- 
zled. 

"Don't  you  mean,"  asked  the  woman, 
"that  you  beheaded  nine  people  in  the 
first  village?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Carew.  "What  would 
be  the  use  of  that?  I  took  the  same  nine 
heads,  put  them  in  a  bag,  and  carried 
them  back  to  the  relatives  of  the  people 
that  they  had  been  taken  from." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  questioned 
the  American,  "that  that  restitution 
satisfied  their  sense  of  justice?  You 
couldn't  bring  the  people  to  life  again 
who'd  been  murdered." 

"That's  the  point  exactly,"  said  Ca- 
rew, patiently.  "A  human  life  more  or 
less  isn't  worth  getting  excited  about. 
That's  revolting  to  our  notions,  but  you 
have  to  take  people  as  they  are.  You 
can't  make  these  people  regard  life  as 


Drawn  by  Herman  P/eifer 

HER    FACE   HAD   GONE   WHITE   AND   SHE   WAS   CLUTCHING   THE   TABLE   WITH    BOTH  HANDS 


THE  HONORABLE  SYLVIA 


181 


sacred.  What  religion  they  have  is 
against  it,  and  the  logic  of  the  situation 
is  against  it,  too.  They  don't  work,  so 
a  life  has  no  labor  value.  And  in  other 
respects  it's  about  the  cheapest,  com- 
monest thing  there  is.  But  they  have 
got  a  sense  of  property,  and  the  one  hope 
of  building  a  civilization  for  them  is 
to  build  it  on  that.  As  they  begin  to 
learn  to  want  things,  their  property  will 
take  other  forms  than  heads — finery  and 
trinkets  to  begin  with.  But  one  has  to 
go  slow,  and  at  present  I  respect  their 
property  in  heads.  I  claim  that  a  man 
has  a  property  right  in  his  own,  and  I 
punish  head-hunting  just  as  I  do  any 
other  theft." 

"I  should  think,  though,"  objected 
the  American,  "that  there'd  be  more 
glory  in  taking  a  live  head  than  a  dead 
one. 

"Not  so  much,"  Carew  explained, 
"because  a  man  would  defend  any  head 
he  possessed  just  as  enthusiastically  as 
he  would  the  one  that  grew  on  his  shoul- 
ders.   He'll  guard  a  grave  ..." 

He  broke  off  there  with  an  apologetic 
little  glance  at  Sylvia. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  smiling  readily, 
"tell  them  about  it.  They'll  be  inter- 
ested." 

Carew  turned  and  pointed  out  through 
the  open  window. 

"It  comes  rather  close  home,"  he  said. 
"And  I  think  it  must  be  rather  hard  on 
my  wife,  though  she  pretends  she  doesn't 
mind.  My  predecessor's  wife  died  out 
here  and  is  buried  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  lawn.  He  had  to  bury  her — or 
thought  he  did — right  under  the  Resi- 
dency windows,  and  he  inclosed  the 
grave  in  sheet-iron  and  put  that  big 
granite  slab  on  the  top  of  it  to  make  sure 
that  it  wouldn't  be  rifled  by  Dyaks.  He 
made  me  promise,  when  I  came  here  to 
take  the  post  (of  course  he  was  half  mad 
at  the  time  and  the  precaution  was  really 
unnecessary)  to  have  it  watched  day  and 
night.  You  can  see  the  Sikh  out  there 
now.  At  least  you  can  make  out  his 
white  turban — there,  under  the  tree." 

He  turned  back  from  the  window 
again  and  seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"It  is  rough  on  Sylvia,"  he  repeated, 
"a  memento  mori  like  that.  But  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  about  it.  I  gave  the 
poor  chap  my  word,  you  see.   And,  after 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  764.-23 


all,  the  moral  effect  on  the  Dyaks  is 
good.  I  must  guard  my  own  property, 
you  see,  as  sacredly  as  I  guard  theirs. 
It's  one  of  the  things  my  prestige  de- 
pends on.  And  my  prestige  is  practi- 
cally the  only  thing  I  have  to  govern 
with." 

The  Chinese  butler  had  come  in  as  he 
finished,  and  stood,  grave  as  a  stone 
image,  in  the  doorway,  awaiting  recog- 
nition. 

"Jalan,"  said  Carew,  "what  is  it?" 

"Come  one  piece  pleeceman,"  said  the 
Chinaman. 

"To  see  me?"  asked  Carew,  getting 
out  of  his  chair.    "Where  is  he?" 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but 
crossed  the  room  and  followed  the  China- 
man out. 

There  was  silence  in  the  big  dining- 
room  for  a  minute  or  two  after  Carew 
went.  The  American  woman  had  been 
staring  out  at  the  grave  on  the  lawn  ever 
since  Carew  had  first  called  attention  to 
it.  Now  she  turned  around  and  looked 
at  Sylvia  with  a  wide  wonder  in  her 
eyes — a  look  which,  from  what  she  saw 
in  Sylvia's  face,  flashed  instantly  into  an 
understanding  pity.  She  wasn't  so  very 
much  older  than  Sylvia  herself. 

The  warm  gush  of  sympathy,  coming 
unexpectedly  like  that,  got  over  Sylvia's 
defenses.  She  gave  an  irrepressible 
shudder,  and  pressed  her  hands  against 
her  eyes,  as  if,  for  just  a  moment,  to  shut 
out  a  vision. 

The  man  guest,  who  had  risen  when 
Carew  did  and  had  remained  standing, 
somewhat  at  a  loss,  moved  quickly  away 
to  the  window  and  stood  there  looking 
out.  The  two  women  might  have  been 
alone  together. 

"You're  such  a  wonder,"  said  the 
American  woman,  unevenly.  "You're 
so  cool  and  perfect  that  one  can't  real- 
ize what  it  means,  unless  you  let  them 
see.    But  I  understand  now." 

"You  don't  understand.  You  don't 
know,"  said  Sylvia. 

Her  guest  did  not  press  the  point. 

"Has  he  gone  down  to  the  town?"  she 
asked.  "It  isn't  likely  to  be  anything 
serious,  is  it:" 

"Oh,  just  a  murder  or  something," 
said  Sylvia.  "It's  too  quiet  down  there 
for  it  to  be  anything  very  bad." 

The  man  turned  away  from  the  win- 


182 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


dow.  "He  is  sending  the  policeman 
away  and  coming  back,"  he  said,  quiet- 
ly, and  took  his  place  again  at  the  table. 

Sylvia  sat  up  straight  again,  and  once 
more  pressed  her  hands  against  her  eyes. 
She  hadn't  cried  enough  to  discolor 
them.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
of  her  guests  with  a  shaky  little  smile. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  for  each  of 
them  had  done  her  a  service. 

Carew,  coming  back  into  the  room, 
found  everything  just  as  he  had  left  it. 

"It  was  nothing,  after  all,  then?" 
asked  Sylvia. 

"I'll  have  to  go  down  after  dinner," 
said  Carew,  "but  everything's  all  right 
for  the  present.  The  woman's  locked  up 
and  both  the  men  are  dead." 

He  drank  half  a  glass  of  wine  in  a 
meditative  way,  then  turned  to  the 
American. 

"It  fits  in  rather  with  what  we  were 
saying,"  he  began.  "A  Sikh  policeman 
tried  to  arrest  a  woman,  and  a  Malay 
who  was  with  her  slipped  a  kris  into  him. 
The  Malay  is  very  excitable,  and  once  he 
lets  his  kris  taste  blood  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  the  woman.  "Do  you 
know  what  a  kris  is  ?  One  of  those  wavy- 
bladed  daggers." 

She  nodded  and  shivered  at  the  same 
time.  "We've  bought  a  whole  collection 
of  them,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  Carew  went  on,  "once  his 
kris  tastes  blood,  he's  likely  to  turn  per- 
fectly irresponsible.  Westerners  call  it 
'  running  amuck.'  It  is  really  nothing 
but  a  feeling  that,  since  he  has  broken 
loose,  he  may  as  well  make  a  thorough 
job  of  it  and  kill  as  many  more  as  possi- 
ble before  they  can  get  him.  That  is 
what  he  started  to  do  in  this  case,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  for  another 
policeman  to  shoot  him." 

"What  had  the  woman  done,"  the 
American  wanted  to  know,  "that  the 
first  man  tried  to  arrest  her  for?" 

Carew  smiled,  and  turned  to  Sylvia. 

"You  will  be  interested  in  that,"  he 
said.  "She's  a  woman  who's  been  work- 
ing for  you  up  here.  She  had  set  her  cap 
for  this  Malay,  and,  in  order  to  fascinate 
him,  she  had  stolen — what  do  you  sup- 
pose? A  dozen  brass  curtain-rings.  She 
was  wearing  them  for  bracelets  half-way 
up  her  arm  when  the  policeman  arrested 
her." 


"There's  the  irony  of  things,"  said  the 
American.  "An  absurdly  trifling  act 
like  that,  and  two  men  dead  as  the  result 
of  it." 

"No,"  said  Carew,  "you  mustn't  look 
at  it  that  way.  Not  if  you're  going  to 
get  the  East  straight.  Of  course  it's  too 
bad  about  the  policeman.  He  was  a 
valuable  man.  But  he  lost  his  life  doing 
his  duty  and  that's  an  ending  we  for- 
eigners have  to  take  more  or  less  for 
granted.  Of  course  he's  as  foreign  to 
this  situation  as  I  am.  But  the  Malay 
doesn't  matter.  You  can't  blame  him 
for  what  he  did,  and  he'd  be  the  last 
person  (provided  you  could  consult  him) 
to  complain  about  the  result.  That's  all 
in  the  day's  work. 

"The  thing  you  have  got  to  treat  seri- 
ously is  the  theft.  The  fact  that  the 
things  she  stole  were  perhaps  worth 
about  sixpence,  and  that  we'd  never  have 
discovered  the  loss  of  them,  doesn't  enter 
into  the  case.  They  were  very  beautiful 
to  her,  no  doubt — highly  polished  and  all 
— and  tempted  her.  Taking  them  con- 
stituted, from  her  point  of  view,  a  serious 
theft,  and — this  is  what  I  want  you  to 
see — it's  her  point  of  view  that  I've  got 
to  treat  it  from." 

The  point  absorbed  the  interest  of 
both  men — Carew  in  explaining  to  one 
anxious  to  learn,  the  American  in  trying 
to  realize  another  of  the  fascinating 
paradoxes  of  the  East. 

But  the  American  woman  had  only 
about  half  listened.  She  had  hardly 
taken  her  eyes  from  Sylvia's  face  since 
Carew  had  returned.  Now  she  thrust 
her  chair  back  from  the  table  rather 
abruptly. 

"No,"  said  Sylvia,  "it's  all  right.  Sit 
still." 

At  that  both  men  looked  around  at  her, 
and  Carew  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"My  dear!"  he  cried,  in  consterna- 
tion. "What's  the  matter?"  For  her 
face  had  gone  as  white  as  flour  and  she 
was  clutching  the  edge  of  the  table 
tightly  with  both  hands. 

But  she  shook  her  head  at  him  and 
said,  "No,"  in  a  half-inarticulate  plea 
that  he  stay  where  he  was.  And  in  a 
moment  she  got  command  of  her  voice. 
"I  —  I  just  want  to  be  sure  I  under- 
stand what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  mean  that  you're  going  to  punish 


THE  HONORABLE  SYLVIA 


183 


that  woman  seriously  for — for  nothing? 
Because  it  was  nothing.  They  weren't 
worth  anything  to  us.  We're  using 
wooden  rings  in  the  place  we  got  them 
for.  And — and  perhaps  they  meant — 
everything  to  her." 

Carew  answered  gently,  but  it  was  as 
if  from  a  long  way  ofF: 
"Don't  upset  yourself  about 
it,  my  dear.  You've  had 
a  pretty  hard  week,  I  sus- 
pect, and  you're  badly  over- 
wrought." 

Sylvia's  color  came  flood- 
ing back  again.  He  was 
apologizing  for  her  to  their 
guests.  The  real  issue  had 
not  got  his  attention  yet  at 
all.  He  did  not  realize  that 
there  was  an  issue. 

"I'm  not  tired  nor  over- 
wrought in  the  least,"  she 
said  as  steadily  as  she  could. 
"I  don't  want  you  to  think 
about  me.  I  w-want  you  to 
think  about  that  pitiable 
little  woman.  Can't  you 
see?  She  had  to  have  those 
things.  That's  something 
that  might  happen  to — to 
anybody.  And  she  was 
afraid  to  ask  me  for  them. 
That's  the  heart-breaking 
part  of  it.  And  now  her 
man's  dead — that  she  took 
them  for.  They  killed  him, 
I  suppose,  before  her  eyes. 
And  you  talk  of  punishing 
her!" 

Now  it  was  Carew  whose 
color  faded  out  under  his  coat  of  tan. 

Their  two  guests,  forgotten,  afraid  of 
each  other's  eyes,  stared  at  their  empty 
glasses. 

"If  you  want  to  debate  it  as  an  ab- 
stract proposition,"  said  Carew,  slowly, 
"I'll  say  that  if  the  woman  is  allowed  to 
keep  the  spoils,  she  can  probably  attract 
another  man  who  will  suit  her  just  as 
well.  I  think  you'd  recognize  that,  if 
she  happened  not  to  be  somebody  you 
knew  as  an  individual.  I  have  had  to 
punish  before,  in  cases  that  were  per- 
sonal to  me.  I've  done  it  because  I 
knew  that  the  only  hope  for  beginning 
to  civilize  these  people  is  the  justice  that 
I  hold  in  my  hand.    There  are  two  or 


three  hundred  thousand  of  them  up- 
country  there,  who  are  beginning  to  take 
my  law.  They  don't  know  it  as  an 
abstract  thing.  It's  something  of  mine. 
If  they  don't  raid  and  murder  as  much  as 
they  did,  it's  because  they  are  beginning 
to  take  my  notion  that  it's  better  to 


She  was  wearing  the  Curtain-rings  for  Bracelets 


leave  another  man's  goods  alone.  And 
if  they  see  I  don't  believe  it  myself  .  .  ." 

He  brought  his  hands  down  softly,  but 
solidly,  on  the  table. 

"Even  as  a  matter  of  self-preserva- 
tion," he  went  on,  "the  thing  is  impor- 
tant. Against  a  quarter  of  a  million  of 
them,  I've  got  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  Sikh  policemen  who  would  stand  up 
and  be  butchered  for  my  word.  One  of 
them  lost  his  life  that  way  to-night." 

There  was  a  silence  after  that.  The 
American  drew  in  a  long  breath  and  let 
it  out  with  a  rush.  Finally  Sylvia  spoke, 
doggedly  and  dully,  not  as  one  who 
hopes  any  more,  but  as  one  who  plays 
his  last  card. 


184 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


"You're  right  in  general,  I  suppose. 
I  hadn't — thought  of  it  that  way.  I 
wish  you'd  told  me  sooner.  But,  just  for 
this  once,  I'm  going  to  ask  as  a  favor 
that  you  don't  punish  the  woman  who 
stole — the  curtain-rings." 

For  just  a  moment  a  blaze  of  cold  fire 
lighted  up  Carew's  blue  eyes  and  then  it 
faded.  He  pressed  his  lips  together  be- 
fore he  spoke. 

"We'll  talk  about  it  in  the  morning," 
he  said,  gently.  "And  you  won't  ask 
me  that  favor  again.  You  will  have  seen 
by  then  what  it  means." 

"There's  s-something  else,"  said  Syl- 
via. But  Carew  had  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  risen  from  the  table. 

"I  think  I'd  better  go  down  to  the 
town,"  he  said,  addressing  his  guests, 
"and  see  that  it  is  really  quiet.  We 
don't  want  any  more  murders  to-night." 

Sylvia  said,  "Wait!"  But  it  was  only 
in  a  whisper  and  he  was  already  gone. 

The  silence  lasted  until  she  had  seen 
him  pass  the  window  and  cross  the  lawn. 
Her  two  guests,  searching  desperately 
for  something — just  the  one  right,  casual 
thing  to  say,  to  cut  the  cord  that  bound 
this  tense  silence — looked  neither  at  her 
nor  at  each  other.  But  they  were  aware 
that,  very  still  and  white,  she  was  gazing 
at  the  point  where  he  had  disappeared. 
At  last  she  spoke. 

"You  see — I  am  a  thief,  too,"  said  the 
Honorable  Sylvia. 

"You  don't  mean  literally?" 

It  was  the  man  who  asked  the  ques- 
tion from  a  throat  that  he  found  unex- 
pectedly dry.  But  apparently  he  knew 
she  did,  because  her  bare  nod  of  assent 
was  enough  to  answer  him.  He  did  not 
go  on  to  ask  what  she  had  stolen.  After 
all,  it  didn't  matter. 

And  now  she  waited  for  her  husband 
to  come  back  from  meting  out  justice — 
logical,  necessary  justice — upon  the  lit- 
tle Malay  woman  who  had  stolen  the 
curtain-rings.  He  was  all  she  had — all 
she  loved  or  wanted  in  the  world.  And 
she  was  alone  with  him  in  that  remotest 
corner  of  it. 

I  suppose  situations  like  that  are  not 
uncommon,  especially  when  a  man  and  a 
woman  are  left  alone  in  a  strange  and 
hostile  environment.  Probably  many 
an  odd  corner  of  the  lower  latitudes 


could  produce  a  story  something  like 
that,  only,  as  a  rule,  one  does  not  know 
about  them.  This  one  is  getting  told 
because  it  just  happened  that  my  wife 
and  I  were  the  two  American  guests  at 
the  Residency  that  night,  and  that  Syl- 
via, after  John  Carew  had  left  her  there 
to  go  down  to  the  village,  told  it  to  us — 
told  it  in  many  ragged  little  fragments, 
under  a  pressure  of  panic  and  despera- 
tion that  forced  her  to  forget  traditional 
reticences  and  to  clutch,  in  the  welter,  at 
anything  that  looked  like  a  sympathetic 
hand. 

The  story  was  simple  enough. 

Two  days  after  her  husband  had  gone 
ofF  into  the  jungle  to  secure  his  nine 
heads  and  return  them  to  the  village 
that  had  been  feloniously  despoiled  of 
them,  the  Mainz  from  Singapore  came 
into  the  harbor  at  Raffleton.  The  new 
monsoon,  at  forty-five  miles  an  hour  or 
so,  was  blowing  at  the  one  precise  angle 
which  gave  it  access  to  the  harbor,  and 
two  big  packing-cases,  both  addressed  to 
the  Residency,  were  dropped  overboard 
in  an  attempt  to  land  them.  By  the 
time  they  were  rescued  and  got  ashore, 
the  consignee's  marks  were  pretty  well 
obliterated.  But  both  of  them  were 
brought  forthwith  to  the  Residency. 

Now,  the  Honorable  Sylvia  expected  a 
box.  She  had  come  out  to  the  Far  East 
on  the  grand  tour  more  than  two  years 
before,  amply  equipped  for  a  casual 
glance  at  the  tropics.  As  you  know,  she 
had  varied  the  plan  by  staying  and  mar- 
rying Carew.  At  the  end  of  two  years 
the  necessity  for  replenishing  this  ward- 
robe became  pressing  and  she  did  what 
every  permanent  resident  in  that  part  of 
the  world  is  forced  to  do,  ordered  more 
clothes  by  mail  from  London.  One  of 
the  two  boxes  undoubtedly  contained 
those  clothes.  But,  in  view  of  their  re- 
cent immersion  in  sea-water,  it  devolved 
upon  the  Honorable  Sylvia  to  open  both 
boxes  at  once. 

As  it  happened,  the  box  she  opened 
first  contained  the  purchases  which  Mrs. 
Thorndyke-Martin  had  made  in  Paris: 
a  lot  of  seductively  lovely  stockings  and 
underclothes,  a  couple  of  frocks,  and  a 
certain  miraculous  hat.  They  had  been 
beautifully  packed  and  the  brief  immer- 
sion of  their  box  in  the  water  of  the  har- 
bor hadn't  damaged  them  a  bit. 


THE  HONORABLE  SYLVIA 


185 


For  one  delirious  moment  Sylvia 
thought  they  were  hers.  But  it  didn't 
need,  really,  the  discovery  of  the  Pari- 
sian modiste's  bill  to  convince  her  of  her 
mistake. 

Then  she  opened  the  other  box,  which 
contained  her  own  purchases.  She  found 
them  undamaged,  but  just  as  ghastly 
and  provincial  and  absurd  as  in  her 
worst  anticipations  she  had  pictured 
them. 

And  it  was  while  they  were  all  spread 
out  in  her  big,  shabby  boudoir  in  the 
Residency  that  the  butler  had  brought 
in  the  wireless  message  announcing  the 
prospective  visit  of  the  South  Asiatic 
Squadron  at  Raffleton. 

You  will  have  to  stop  and  think  a  min- 
ute to  realize  just  what  that  visit  im- 
ported to  Sylvia. 

Admiral  Etheridge,  who  commanded 
the  fleet,  was  an  old  friend  of  her  moth- 
er's. And  the  young  flag- lieutenant, 
who  had  signed  the  message,  was  a  sort 
of  second  cousin  of  her  own.  Probably 
half  a  dozen  of  the  officers  she  would  be 
expected  to  entertain  were  boys  she  had 
danced  and  flirted  with  in  the  old  days. 
In  a  word,  then,  the  visit  meant  that 
Sylvia's  old  world  was  coming  for  a  look 
at  her. 

Her  old  world  had  treated  her  badly; 
there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  It  might 
have  pitied  her  a  little  for  falling  in  love 
with  Carew,  but  it  had  shown  itself  hor- 
rified, coldly  implacable,  and,  at  last, 
insolently  derisive,  when  she  insisted  on 
marrying  him. 

It  had  not  been 
hard,  indeed  it  had 
been  fiercely  satisfac- 
tory, to  send  that  old 
world  overboard,  in 
the  wonderful  blaze  of 
passion  and  pride  and 
self-abandonment  that 
had  given  her  to 
Carew.  And  those 
fires  were  blazing  still. 
He  had  never  disap- 
pointed her  once.  The 
price  she  had  paid  for 
him,  in  the  loneliness 
and  monotony  of  his 
absences,  in  the  pan- 
icky terrors  of  her 
strange  surroundings, 


in  the  contemptuous  abandonment  of 
her  old  world  and  the  skeptical  curiosity 
of  her  new,  weighed  not  a  grain  against 
the  complete  and  poignant  happiness  he 
brought  her.  Her  old  world  was  wel- 
come to  come  and  look. 

But — and  here  the  bright  red  burned 
in  her  cheeks,  and  her  finger-nails  pressed 
hard  into  her  small  palms — they  must 
not  be  allowed  to  come  and  laugh,  for 
their  laughter  would  be  at  her  husband 
rather  than  at  her.  "We  remember  the 
Sylvia  he  took.  And  this  is  what  he  has 
made  of  her — this  pathetically  dowdy 
little  Colonial,  trying  to  dress  as  she 
imagines  people  are  dressing  back  home." 


She  saw  herself  fully  arrayed  in  her  Spoils 


186 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


She  looked  at  the  things  that  had 
come  in  her  own  box  from  London,  and 
her  eyes  flashed  with  the  tears  of  pure, 
helpless  anger.  And  then  she  looked 
at  what  Mrs.  Thorndyke-Martin  had 
bought,  to  pass  the  time,  in  Paris.  They 
must  be  nearly  alike  in  size  and  figure, 
and  clothes  don't  have  to  fit  nowadays, 
anyway.  A  half-dozen  deftly  placed  pins 
would  make  everything  right.  Dressed 
like  that,  how  she  could  face  that  old 
world  of  hers!  How  serenely  she  could 
smile  at  it  from  under  that  hat!  How 
confidently  could  she  bid  them  welcome, 
and  entertain  them,  and  send  them  away 
again,  wondering — even  if  her  husband 
did  not  return  in  time  to  see  his  triumph, 
and  make  it  perfect. 

Because  you  can  understand,  can't 
you,  that  it  would  be  his  triumph  rather 
than  hers? 

The  Honorable  Sylvia  put  on  the  hat, 
took  it  off  and  rearranged  her  hair,  and 
put  it  on  again,  and  a  great  resolution 
formed  itself  in  her  soul.  The  Thorn- 
dyke-Martins  were  coming.  They  were 
expected  to  get  in  on  the  General  Reyes, 
along  with  Captain  Burch,  a  day  or  two 
before  the  squadron  arrived.  Sylvia 
would  go  to  Mrs.  Martin  and  buy,  or 
beg,  or  borrow  those  clothes.  Whatever 
happened,  when  the  admiral  and  the 
flag  -  lieutenant  and  the  rest  came 
ashore  they  should  find  her  wearing 
them. 

And  then  something  happened  that 
she  hadn't  counted  on.  The  General 
Reyes  came  into  the  harbor  and,  without 
dropping  anchor  at  all,  sent  a  boat 
ashore  for  mails.  There  was  no  time  to 
explain,  to  beg  or  borrow,  or  to  offer 
to  buy.  The  Honorable  Sylvia  could 
either  wrap  up  Mrs.  Thorndyke-Mar- 
tin's  clothes  and  send  them  aboard,  or 
she  could  steal  them,  which  latter  act 
involved,  you  will  observe,  doing  pre- 
cisely nothing  at  all — just  letting  the 
boat  go  back  without  them.  And  that  is 
what  she  did. 

She  did  not,  at  first,  scrutinize  the 
moral  quality  of  the  act  at  all.  She 
flushed  and  smiled  at  herself  in  the  glass 
when  first  she  saw  herself  fully  arrayed 
in  her  spoils,  with  nothing  more  than  an 
amused  sense  of  mischief.  Her  husband 
was  away  at  that  time,  you  are  to  re- 
member, out  in  the  jungle,  collecting  his 


nine  heads.  It  was  not  until  he  came 
back,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  garden- 
party,  and  she  saw  the  look  that  came 
into  his  face  as  he  caught  his  first  glimpse 
of  her,  that  the  first  misgiving  came. 
She  had  meant  to  make  her  confession 
as  soon  as  they  had  a  moment  together, 
time  to  turn  away  and  smile  and  then 
turn  a  pair  of  demure  faces  back  to  their 
guests.  Somehow,  at  that  one  look  of 
his  she  had  realized  that  it  could  not  be 
done  that  way. 

One  of  the  elements  which  went  to 
make  up  her  adoration  of  him  was 
something  akin  to  fear.  At  the  very  core 
of  the  man,  accounting  perhaps  for  his 
almost  miraculous  power  over  savage 
peoples,  was  a  saint-like  sort  of  austerity 
— something  that  was  inaccessible  to  the 
intrusion  of  merely  human  loves  or  fears. 
Sylvia  knew  it  was  there,  knew  that  even 
her  hand  might  not  be  laid  upon  the  veil 
before  it.  But  it  was  only  gradually  that 
she  realized  how  this  act  of  hers  would 
look  when  brought  for  judgment  before 
that  shrine.  The  misgiving  slowly  deep- 
ened into  a  fear,  and  by  the  time  the 
squadron  had  steamed  away  and  the 
planters  returned  to  their  plantations 
she  was  ready  to  interpose  even  the  pres- 
ence of  two  casual,  vagrant  Americans 
between  herself  and  the  necessity  for 
telling  him. 

It  seemed  like  the  mockery  of  a  mali- 
cious fate  that  gave  the  subject  of  their 
talk  the  turn  it  had  taken.  Here  was  a 
deadly  parable  that  the  Prophet  Nathan 
himself  could  hardly  have  improved 
upon.  The  poor,  frightened  little  native 
woman  who  had  had  to  steal  in  order 
that  she  might  be  finely  arrayed — would 
John  Carew  be  willing  to  show  one  of 
those  women  thieves  more  mercy  than 
he  was  prepared  to  show  the  other? 

The  sudden  flare  of  cold  anger  that 
had  come  up  into  his  blue  eyes  answered 
that  question,  if  it  had  not  been  an- 
swered before.  The  man  was  a  fanatic, 
of  course;  he  had  in  him  the  quality  of 
logically  carrying  out  a  valid  idea  to 
remorseless  and  inhuman  conclusions — a 
quality  that  has  planted  many  a  stake 
and  set  the  torch  to  many  a  pyre. 

Oh,  it  was  simple  enough,  and  easy  to 
understand.   But  what  was  one  to  do? 

I  tried,  in  a  futile  sort  of  way,  to  think 
up  a  phrase  or  two:  "To  comprehend  all 


THE  HONORABLE  SYLVIA 


187 


is  to  pardon  all,"  and  a  few  generalities 
like  that,  but  their  flat  futility  kept  me 
from  uttering  them,  and  there  was  a 
silence  for  a  while  after  Sylvia  had  come 
to  the  end  of  her  story. 

I  looked  across  at  my  wife.  She  was 
thinking,  too,  and,  it  presently  trans- 
pired, to  better  purpose.  Luckily  women 
have  not  our  passion  for  abstract  moral- 
ity.  They  act  on  the  particular  event. 

"If  you  will  pack  up  those  clothes," 
said  my  wife,  "I  will  take  them  back  to 
Mrs.  Martin,  and  then,  you  see,  you  will 
only  have  borrowed  them — not  stolen 
them  at  all." 

There  was  another  little  silence  after 
that.  Sylvia  had  stopped  sobbing,  but 
her  face  was  still  buried  in  her  arms.  I 
saw  my  wife  smile. 

"For  that  matter,"  she  went  on,  "I 
don't  see  why  you  haven't  really  bor- 
rowed them  from  me.  I'll  take  the  re- 
sponsibility for  Mrs.  Martin — I  know 
she  won't  mind  a  bit.  I've  lent  them  to 
you,  and  now,  if  you're  through  with 
them,  I  can  take  them  back.  It  doesn't 
matter  whose  clothes  they  are.  There's 
nothing  wrong  about  that,  is  there?" 

After  a  moment  she  said  again,  as  one 
repeats  a  lesson  to  a  child: 

"You  borrowed  those  clothes  from  me. 
And  now,  if  you're  through  with  them, 
I'll  take  them  back." 

Sylvia  sat  up  and  gazed  out  through 
the  window  at  the  lighted  patch  of  lawn 
with  the  big  granite  slab  in  the  middle  of 
it.   Then  she  rose. 


"I'll  get  them  for  you,"  she  said. 

My  wife  went  with  her,  and  I  lighted 
a  fresh  cigar  and  strolled  out  on  the  bal- 
cony. 

As  it  happened,  we  didn't  see  Carew 
again.  Our  cab  came  for  us  before  his 
return  from  the  village,  and  we  drove 
down  to  the  Rest  House  under  a  heap  of 
bandboxes.  The  Sarah  Bird  came  in 
during  the  night,  and  we  sailed  on  her  the 
next  morning  for  Cebu. 

We  found  the  Thorndyke  -  Martins 
in  Manila  and  gave  Mrs.  Martin  her 
clothes.  We  had  to  tell  her  the  story, 
more  or  less,  to  account  for  the  way  they 
were  packed,  and  it  needed  all  but  forci- 
ble restraint  to  keep  her  from  shipping 
them  straight  back  to  Sylvia.  She  was 
indignant  with  us  for  not  having  given 
them  to  her. 

Many  of  the  places  we  have  visited  at 
one  time  or  another  seem  a  long  way  off, 
when  contemplated  retrospectively  from 
our  domestic  hearth,  but  Raffleton  seems 
farther  than  them  all.  It  seemed  like  a 
message  from  another  planet  when,  last 
Christmas,  we  got  a  little  card  of  greet- 
ings from  Mr.  and  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
John  Carew. 

"Much  love,"  Sylvia  had  written  on 
it,  "and  a  world  of  thanks." 

"I  have  always  wondered,"  said  my 
wife,  "whether  she  told  him." 

"That  is  because  you  have  no  real 
interest  in  morality,"  said  I.  "Now, 
what  I  wonder  is,  whether  she  ought  to 
have  told  him." 


Why  Do  We  Have  a  Diplomatic  Service? 


BY  DAVID  JAYNE  HILL 


Former  Ambassador  of  the  United  States  to  Germany 


iOT  many  months  ago,  in 
a  little  after-dinner  com- 
pany at  Washington, 
the  conversation  fell 
upon  our  foreign  service. 
The  comments  made 
were  chiefly  of  a  per- 
sonal character,  consisting  of  references 
to  the  qualities  and  peculiarities  of  our 
diplomatic  representatives  in  foreign  cap- 
itals. Only  one  general  observation  illu- 
mined the  dismal  gossip  of  the  evening. 
As  the  party  was  about  to  break  up,  a 
newly  elected  Senator,  who  had  main- 
tained an  interested  silence  during  the 
conversation,  suddenly  remarked,  "I 
don't  understand  why  we  have  those 
fellows,  anyway." 

This  observation,  which  evoked  an 
outburst  of  laughter  but  elicited  no  re- 
sponse, has  the  threefold  merit  of  being 
just,  kindly,  and  honest,  which  is  saying 
much  in  these  days  of  searching  criti- 
cism upon  questions  relating  to  public 
life.  It  is  just,  because  it  clearly  indi- 
cates the  proper  starting-point  of  a  dis- 
cussion regarding  our  diplomatic  service. 
It  is  kindly,  because  it  places  without 
discrimination  all  the  representatives  of 
our  country  engaged  in  that  service  in 
the  same  large,  generous  category  of 
"those  fellows" — which,  if  slightly  lack- 
ing in  respect,  at  least  does  not  imply 
any  opprobrium.  It  is  honest,  because 
it  is  a  frank  confession  of  ignorance,  be- 
tokening a  state  of  mind  at  once  docile 
and  unassuming;  and,  if  not  keenly 
curious,  implies  no  unconquerable  preju- 
dice. 

At  a  small  gathering  in  a  well-known 
club  in  the  city  of  Washington,  where 
the  Senator's  observation  was  quoted, 
it  was  caustically  remarked  that  when 
that  gentleman  had  been  longer  in  poli- 
tics he  would  discover  the  practical 
reasons  "why  we  have  those  fellows. " 

The  obscurity  of  this  observation,  cou- 


pled with  the  expression  of  countenance 
with  which  it  was  uttered,  moved  a 
young  lawyer  not  long  out  of  the  law- 
school  to  ask  for  an  explanation;  where- 
upon the  first  speaker  remarked  that 
every  one  who  had  had  practical  ex- 
perience with  politics  understood  what 
he  meant,  and  that  it  was  not  a  matter 
for  public  discussion. 

The  vague  smile  with  which  this  re- 
mark was  received  by  those  present 
plainly  indicated  that  it  was  not  agree- 
able to  hear  a  branch  of  the  public  ser- 
vice spoken  of  in  this  manner.  They 
could  not  help  remembering  that  they 
were  American  citizens,  and  that  not 
only  public  officials,  but  the  manner  of 
conducting  public  affairs,  were  being 
made  the  objects  of  a  covert,  yet  not 
very  covert,  sneer.  The  young  lawyer 
seemed  especially  annoyed  by  the  speak- 
er's insinuation,  and  asked  what  he 
meant  by  such  a  statement. 

"I  mean,"  was  the  reply,  "that  the 
entire  vocabulary  now  in  common  use 
regarding  this  subject  indicates  that  the 
country  has  no  serious  interest  in  the 
diplomatic  service.  It  has  been  assailed 
in  Congress  as  "purely  ornamental." 
It  has  been  retained  only  because  of  its 
utility  to  party  politics.  It  is  the  very 
life  of  a  Presidential  election." 

"And  you  believe  in  continuing  this 
system?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"Sinecures,"  was  the  reply,  "are  nec- 
essary to  the  life  of  a  political  party.  The 
indefinite  character  of  the  diplomatic  ser- 
vice renders  it  particularly  useful;  for, 
while  it  appeals  chiefly  to  men  of  leisure, 
it  stimulates  aspirations  which  awaken 
an  interest  in  public  affairs  that  might 
otherwise  never  exist;  and,  since  the 
service  has  no  standard  of  qualification 
or  efficiency,  there  is  no  limit  to  its 
political  usefulness." 

"You  think,  then,  that  this  system  is 
a  public  advantage?"  asked  the  lawyer. 


WHY  DO  WE  HAVE  A  DIPLOMATIC  SERVICE  ?  189 


"I  shall  not  say  a  public  advantage; 
the  public  has  no  interest  in  it.  But  it 
is  a  political  advantage,  both  before  and 
after  elections." 

"How  is  that?"  inquired  a  man  who 
had  been  trying  to  read  a  newspaper. 

"Why,"  answered  the  first  speaker, 
"  you  look  to  the  Executive  to  promote 
legislation.  If  Congress  becomes  lethar- 
gic, the  diplomatic  service  is  there  to  be 
used  as  a  stimulant.  You  like  a  strong 
Executive,  do  you  not  ?  Well,  what  gives 
a  stronger  hand  than  the  power  to  be- 
stow and  the  power  to  withhold  ?  Noth- 
ing serves  to  quicken  interest  like — " 

"But,"  broke  in  the  young  lawyer, 
"do  you  think  it  is  right  to  apply  such 
motives?" 

"It  is  always  right  to  obey  the  will  of 
the  people,  and  the  Executive  is  the 
expression  of  the  people's  will.  They 
have  placed  him  in  the  seat  of  power.  It 
is  unreasonable  to  expect  him  to  make 
bricks  without  straw." 

"How  about  the  legislators?  Have 
they  no  mandate  from  the  people?" 
queried  a  voice  from  a  corner  of  the 
room. 

"Personally,  I  believe  in  a  strong  gov- 
ernment," replied  the  first  speaker,  "and 
nothing  strengthens  a  government  like 
offices  that  can  be  vacated  and  filled  at 
will.  The  purists,  with  their  foolish  dif- 
fusion of  power,  are  bringing  politics 
into  disrepute." 

"The  founders  of  our  government  did 
not  regard  public  office  from  your  point 
of  view,"  replied  the  young  lawyer,  ear- 
nestly. "Public  positions  were  created 
for  the  service  of  the  nation,  not  for 
party  or  personal  advantage.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  know  whether  the  diplomatic 
service  is  useful  to  the  country  or  not. 
But  it  makes  no  difference  to  my  conten- 
tion. If  it  is  useless,  it  ought  to  be 
abolished.  If  it  is  useful,  it  ought  to  be 
respected,  and  not  made  an  object  of 
traffic.  We  have  had  in  the  foreign  ser- 
vice of  our  country  men  of  the  greatest 
personal  eminence  and  of  the  highest 
qualifications,  who  were  not  chosen  for 
the  reasons  you  have  intimated.  Adams, 
Jefferson,  Madison,  and  Monroe,  not 
to  mention  Franklin — men  who  have 
been  honored  with  the  Presidency — were 
among  our  earliest  ministers  abroad. 
The  service  has  been  adorned  by  some 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  764.-24 


of  our  most  illustrious  writers,  such  as 
Irving,  Bancroft,  Motley,  and  Lowell. 
To  the  greater  Powers  we  have  habitu- 
ally sent  our  most  distinguished  citizens 
— a  long  roll  of  eminent  men  who  were 
not  politicians  in  any  narrow  sense, 
though  many  of  them  were  statesmen  of 
a  high  order.  Your  insinuation  is  unjust 
to  them,  to  our  Presidents,  and  to  the 
American  people." 

"You  young  reformers  are  always 
talking  about  the  'people.'  What  do  the 
people  know  or  care  about  these  things? 
They  only  want  to  be  left  alone.  No- 
body cares  who  has  the  offices.  But 
without  offices  what  would  become  of 
politics  ?" 

A  clergyman  who  happened  to  be  of 
the  company,  fearing  that  the  debate 
was  becoming  too  heated  and  might  lead 
to  scandal,  thought  it  advisable  to  turn 
the  current  of  talk  into  a  different  chan- 
nel, and  said:  "I  think  it  is  not  always 
profitable  to  discuss  too  freely  the  mo- 
tives of  men.  Is  it  not  better  to  consider 
their  difficulties  and  embarrassments, 
and  try  to  remove  them?  I  have  always 
supposed  that  every  deliberate  provision 
of  government  has  some  purpose  of  dis- 
tinct public  usefulness,  and  I  suppose 
this  one  has;  but  I  am  very  much  in 
sympathy  with  the  sentiment  expressed 
by  the  new  Senator.  I  do  not  under- 
stand fully  why  we  have  ambassadors, 
except  for  social  purposes,  and  I  should 
very  much  like  to  be  informed." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  finally  broken 
by  an  elderly  gentleman  of  scholarly  ap- 
pearance whom  every  one  addressed  as 
"Judge."  "If  I  remember  rightly,"  he 
said,  "the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  in  Article  II.,  Section  2,  Clause  2, 
makes  the  same  provision  for  the  ap- 
pointment of  ambassadors  and  other 
public  ministers  as  for  judges  of  the 
Supreme  Court.  The  natural  inference 
is  that  the  framers  of  our  form  of  gov- 
ernment regarded  them  as  equally  im- 
portant, and  it  is  certain  that  they 
invested  the  selection  of  the  persons  who 
should  serve  in  this  capacity  with  pre- 
cisely the  same  safeguards  as  were  ap- 
plied to  the  choice  of  the  highest  judicial 
officers  of  the  nation,  namely,  nomina- 
tion by  the  President  and  confirmation 
by  the  Senate.  It  was  probably  intended 
that  the  President  should  observe  the 


190 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


same  care  and  be  actuated  by  the  same 
motives  in  both  cases,  and  that  the 
Senate  would  see  that  he  did  his  duty  in 
this  respect.  There  is  no  evidence  that 
these  offices  were  designed  to  serve  any 
merely  partisan  or  personal  purpose,  and 
it  is  fair  to  suppose  that  it  was  not  even 
imagined  that  any  other  motive  than  a 
desire  to  secure  the  most  efficient  public 
service  would  ever  affect  such  appoint- 
ments." 

"That  is  all  very  fine,"  interrupted 
the  propounder  of  the  political-reward 
theory,  "but  it  does  not  touch  the  ques- 
tion as  it  stands  to-day.  It  is  useless  to 
speak  of  the  provisions  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. The  Fathers  took  care  to  provide 
offices  enough  to  go  around!" 

The  young  lawyer's  eyes  blazed  with 
indignation  as  he  exclaimed:  "The 
Fathers  would  feel  contempt  for  us  if  they 
could  know  the  spirit  in  which  their 
labors  are  considered.  The  system 
which  you  openly  defend  would  have 
been  regarded  with  horror  by  the  fra- 
me rs  of  the  Constitution.  They  did  ev- 
erything in  their  power  to  prevent  such 
a  system.  I  feel  a  sense  of  shame  in 
hearing  these  accusations  as  I  recall  the 
words  of  Washington  when  he  took  com- 
mand of  the  army:  '  I  will  keep  an  exact 
account  of  my  expenses;  those,  I  doubt 
not,  will  be  discharged,  and  that  is  all 
I  desire.'  The  Fathers  gave  us  a  country 
to  defend  and  honor  by  service  and  sacri- 
fice, and  set  us  the  example  of  unselfish 
patriotism." 

The  Judge's  face  remained  calm  and 
placid  as  he  turned  alternately  toward 
each  of  the  belligerents,  who  seemed 
determined  to  infuse  fire  into  the  dis- 
cussion; and,  as  if  to  hold  fast  to  some 
line  of  reasoning,  he  promptly  added: 
"Those  men  were  engaged  in  a  great 
task,  and  their  minds  were  filled  with  a 
deep  sense  of  responsibility.  We  were 
then  a  small  and  weak  country.  We  had 
profited  greatly  from  the  diplomacy  of 
the  Revolution.  Lord  Acton  is  of  the 
opinion  that  without  the  aid  of  the 
French  fleet  our  independence  might  not 
have  been  established,  at  least  not  so 
early;  and  many  American  writers  agree 
with  him.  But  we  do  not  need  to  enter 
upon  a  debate  on  this  point.  The  dele- 
gates to  the  Constitutional  Convention 
remembered  with  gratitude  what  Frank- 


lin had  done  for  us.  Our  first  attempt  in 
diplomacy  had  borne  rich  fruit.  It  had 
also  taught  us  many  lessons,  and  a  cau- 
tious foreign  policy  promised  still  to  be 
necessary;  as,  indeed,  it  proved  to  be. 
It  was  a  matter  of  common  consent  that 
'ambassadors  and  other  ministers'  would 
be  needed,  and  in  the  article  of  the  Con- 
stitution I  have  cited  their  appointment 
was  provided  for  before  that  of  the 
judges  of  the  Supreme  Court.  No  objec- 
tion to  providing  for  them  was  offered, 
but  the  creation  of  the  Supreme  Court 
was  a  thorny  question.  The  power  to 
send  and  receive  ambassadors  had  been 
distinctly  accorded  in  the  Articles  of 
Confederation  and  required  no  debate, 
for  it  was  an  essential  attribute  of  a 
sovereign  nation.  The  Supreme  Court, 
on  the  contrary,  was  a  new  institution, 
as  novel  in  its  conception  in  1787  as  an 
international  court  appeared  to  be  a 
century  later.  It  should  be  further  re- 
membered that  in  the  first  draft  of  the 
Constitution  the  power  to  appoint  am- 
bassadors and  judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  was  given  to  the  Senate  alone; 
and  that  it  was  by  subsequent  modifica- 
tion, unanimously  adopted,  that  the 
power  of  appointment  by  the  President, 
with  the  advice  and  consent  of  the  Sen- 
ate, was  conferred.  The  intention  to 
place  such  appointments  upon  the  high- 
est possible  plane,  and  to  invest  them 
with  the  highest  degree  of  responsibility, 
is,  therefore,  very  clear." 

It  was  not  until  the  Judge  had  pro- 
nounced the  words  "Constitution  of  the 
United  States "  that  a  clean-shaven, 
gray-haired  man,  carrying  on  a  conversa- 
tion in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  another 
gentleman,  had  knocked  the  ashes  from 
his  cigar  and  turned  to  listen.  It  was 
a  well-known  Representative  in  Con- 
gress from  a  state  of  the  Middle  West. 

"What  you  have  just  said,  Judge," 
he  observed,  "is  very  interesting  from 
an  historical  point  of  view,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  times  and  conditions  have 
changed  entirely  since  the  Constitution 
was  framed  and  adopted.  First  of  all, 
we  have  greatly  changed  as  a  nation. 
Then  we  were  weak  and  small,  now  we 
have  become  strong  and  great.  We  have 
no  neighbors  who  would  ever  think  of 
attacking  us.  We  fear  nothing  and  want 
less  from  Europe.    What  need,  therefore, 


WHY  DO  WE  HAVE  A  DIPLOMATIC  SERVICE  ?  191 


have  we  of  ambassadors  and  the  para- 
phernalia that  goes  along  with  them? 
We  are  a  plain  and  peaceable  people, 
with  whom  no  one  is  likely  to  interfere. 
And  not  only  that,  but  conditions  have 
changed.  We  have  the  telegraph,  not 
only  the  transatlantic  cable,  but  now  the 
wireless  telegraphy.  All  this  has  greatly 
simplified  communication  and  rendered 
ambassadors  and  the  whole  costly  out- 
fit superfluous.  Worse  than  that,  by 
leaving  ambassadors  nothing  to  do  it 
opens  the  way  to  all  sorts  of  folly:  the 
vanity  of  women,  the  even  greater  van- 
ity of  men,  with  their  foolish  taste  for 
uniforms — which  Congress  has  positively 
forbidden  them  to  wear;  and  decora- 
tions, equally  forbidden,  but  sought  for 
and  worn  just  the  same.  It  is  time  to 
stop  this  nonsense,  which  makes  us 
ridiculous  abroad  and  ashamed  at  home. 
And  now  these  people  want  palaces  to 
live  in  at  public  expense!  I  want  to 
abolish  the  whole  thing." 

A  long  silence  fell  upon  the  company. 
The  Representative's  ardor  and  flu- 
ency rendered  a  reply  difficult.  No  one 
seemed  to  have  the  courage  to  speak. 
He  was  known  to  be  a  keen  debater,  and 
not  too  tolerant  of  opposition.  His  re- 
sources of  ridicule  in  this  case  were  two- 
fold— the  bold,  direct  rhetoric  to  which 
he  was  accustomed,  and  the  salient 
points  of  attack  afforded  by  the  subject, 
which  was  not  lacking  in  picturesque 
material. 

The  discreet  remained  silent,  but  the 
young  lawyer,  in  that  splendid  spirit  of 
knight-errantry  which  scents  with  joy 
the  breath  of  battle,  ventured  to  re- 
mark: "It  seems  to  me  that  much,  if 
not  all,  of  our  legislation  might  be  han- 
dled in  a  similar  manner.  It  is,  after  all, 
simply  a  question  of  choosing  between 
what  you  want  and  what  you  don't 
want.  Let  us  abolish  Congress;  let 
everybody  make  his  suggestions  for  new 
laws  to  a  bureau  of  law-writers  in  Wash- 
ington, to  be  put  by  them  into  the  form 
of  bills;  let  these  be  printed  in  the  news- 
papers, with  a  coupon  attached  on  which 
to  express  a  vote,  and  let  the  laws  that 
have  a  majority  for  them  be  published 
for  the  information  of  the  people.  It 
seems  very  simple." 

This  sally  was  greeted  with  a  general 
laugh,   in  which,   however,   the  Rep- 


resentative did  not  join;  and  he  was 
evidently  annoyed  by  the  attempt  at 
sarcasm  of  one  so  young  and  so  little 
entitled  to  hold  the  floor. 

"That  is,  of  course, ridiculous, "he  said, 
with  the  flicker  of  a  smile,  "and  not 
meant  to  be  taken  seriously.  Legislation 
by  such  a  method  would  be  impossible. 
Without  party  councils,  conferences,  de- 
bates, and  compromises,  no  laws  could 
ever  be  passed.  The  personal  element 
and  the  associative  element  are  both  es- 
sential to  any  understanding,  and  every 
law  fit  to  be  inscribed  on  the  statute- 
book  implies  an  understanding.  In  for- 
eign relations  it  is  different.  Each  nation 
is  represented  by  some  one  person. 
These  persons  have  only  to  communicate 
to  one  another  their  views,  arguments 
and  decisions.    That  ends  the  matter." 

"Is  there,  then,  to  be  no  understand- 
ing between  nations?  Or  can  it  be 
reached  without  personal  contact?"  the 
young  lawyer  asked,  rather  eagerly. 

"The  decisions  of  sovereign  States  are 
necessarily  final,  even  though  they  may 
conflict,"  retorted  the  Representative. 
"Take  our  own  decisions,  for  example. 
Do  you  suppose  that  we  are  going  to  be 
influenced  by  what  any  man  sent  to 
Washington  may  say  to  us?  We  know 
our  interests  and  mean  to  defend  them. 
We  know  how  to  make  up  our  minds, 
and  when  we  have  made  them  up  it 
makes  no  difference  to  us  what  any- 
body else  may  think.  Everything  we 
have  to  do  with  foreigners  can  be  done 
by  telegraph  directly  between  the  heads 
of  the  governments." 

"And  our  diplomatic  correspondence," 
said  the  young  man,  "when  published  in 
the  Red  Book,  would  read  something  like 
this: 

"'Emperor  William, Berlin:  You  have 
too  many  ships  in  the  Caribbean  Sea. 
We  request  you  to  reduce  the  number. — 
Wilson.' 

" '  President  Wilson,  Washington :  We 
run  our  navy  from  Berlin.  Work  on 
your  canal. — W.  I.  R.' 

"'King  George,  London:  You  need 
to  teach  your  Canadians  manners.  Re- 
member we  have  treaties  about  the 
Great  Lakes. — Wilson.' 

" '  President  Wilson,  Washington :  Our 
people  are  accountable  to  us  alone. — 
George  R.'" 


192 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


The  majority  of  those  present  laughed 
heartily,  but  the  Judge  looked  very 
grave.  There  had  been  so  much  truth 
spoken  in  this  dialogue,  without  any 
judicious  formulation  of  it,  that  the 
Judge  had  begun  to  fear  for  the  good 
humor  of  the  company,  and  was  about 
to  arise  and  try  to  break  up  the  gather- 
ing. It  would  never  do  to  let  the  sharp 
but  rather  undisciplined  intelligence  of 
the  Representative  and  the  impertinent 
sarcasm  of  the  young  lawyer  bring  on 
a  thunder-storm,  which  was  evidently 
brewing;  for  they  both  had  that  peculiar 
glitter  of  the  eye  that  so  much  resembles 
the  gleam  which  palpitates  between  two 
electric  wires  when  a  contact  is  almost 
complete. 

Happily,  just  at  that  moment,  there 
entered  the  room  a  man  of  distinguished 
appearance,  evidently  a  foreigner,  al- 
though a  well-known  figure  in  Washing- 
ton. It  was  Count  Brysterand,  the 
Ambassador  of  a  great  European  power. 

All  the  gentlemen  arose  respectfully; 
salutations  were  exchanged;  a  comfort- 
able arm-chair  was  offered,  and  the 
Judge  said,  promptly:  "Your  Excel- 
lency, we  have  been  conversing  on  the 
subject  of  diplomatic  relations  between 
foreign  countries,  rather  unprofitable,  I 
fear,  for  none  of  us  is  an  expert  in  such 
matters.  We  know  how  great  your  au- 
thority upon  this  subject  is,  and  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  a  delight  to  all  of  us 
if  you  were  kindly  disposed  to  express 
your  views." 

The  Ambassador  took  the  seat  that 
was  offered  him,  smiled  genially,  and 
said:  "You  do  me  an  honor  in  wishing 
to  have  my  opinions;  and  I  shall  be 
pleased,  as  far  as  my  limited  knowledge 
goes,  to  take  part  in  your  conversation. 
I  always  like  to  discuss  matters  with  you 
Americans,  you  have  such  a  faculty  for 
getting  to  the  point  of  things  and  seeing 
straight." 

"We  were  speaking  of  the  duties  of 
ambassadors,  Your  Excellency,  and  we 
have  only  the  vaguest  idea  of  what  they 
are. 

"That  depends  upon  what  circum- 
stances make  them,"  said  the  Count. 
"Often  they  consist  chiefly  in  accepting 
kindnesses  and  in  trying  to  be  pleasant 
in  return.  Diplomatists  would  be  very 
happy  if  it  were  always  like  that,  and  we 


consider  that  our  greatest  success  is  to 
maintain  that  condition. 

"But  between  friendly  countries,  why 
should  it  not  always  continue?"  asked 
the  Representative. 

"Certainly,  it  should.  But  things  will 
happen,  you  know;  unexpected  things, 
sometimes  trivial  things,  which  for  a 
time  threaten  to  upset  relations.  Then 
we  have  to  explain,  if  we  can,  and  it  is 
not  always  easy." 

"In  our  state  of  civilization,  one  would 
think,  people  would  be  disposed  to  be 
reasonable,  and  would  understand  that, 
even  if  unpleasant  incidents  occur,  the 
whole  nation  is  not  to  blame,"  broke  in 
the  Representative. 

"Yes,  but  sometimes,  unfortunately, 
whole  nations  become  much  agitated 
over  small  matters,  not  to  speak  of  great 
misunderstandings.  It  is  then  often  diffi- 
cult to  satisfy  the  public  mind,  but  the 
ambassador  is  there  for  that  purpose.  I 
do  not  need  to  cite  instances,  but  you 
will  all  recall  them.  What  is  required 
in  such  circumstances  is  action — prompt, 
cool,  considerate,  reassuring.  It  is  well 
if  it  occurs  simultaneously  at  both  ends 
of  the  line.  Diplomats,  you  know,  are 
expected  always  to  remain  friendly — at 
least  until  matters  have  gone  beyond 
diplomacy.  An  unfriendly  diplomat 
must  always  be  immediately  recalled,  and 
a  more  friendly  one  be  at  once  sent 
in  his  place.  If  a  vacancy  thus  created 
remains  long  unfilled,  it  is  understood 
that  the  government  so  acting  is  of- 
fended. There  are  but  three  steps 
between  international  friendship  and  in- 
ternational hostility.  They  are:  (i)  the 
permanent  recall  of  the  head  of  the 
mission;  (2)  the  recall  of  the  charge 
d'affaires;  and  (3)  the  complete  rupture 
of  diplomatic  relations,  which  is  the  im- 
mediate prelude  of  war." 

The  Representative  started  percep- 
tibly in  his  seat.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say," 
he  asked,  "that  if  we  abolished  our  dip- 
lomatic service  entirely  it  would  give 
offense?" 

The  Ambassador  looked  at  him  a 
moment  in  surprise,  as  if  struggling  to 
catch  his  meaning.  Then  he  said:  "Cer- 
tainly, no  nation  would  do  that  without 
a  reason.  What  reason  could  be  suffi- 
cientr 

"Why,"said  the  Representative,  "you 


WHY  DO  WE  HAVE  A  DIPLOMATIC  SERVICE? 


193 


seem  to  think  that  some  reason  would 
be  expected.  My  point  is,  what  reason 
is  there  for  having  ambassadors,  that  is, 
always  having  ambassadors?  Why  not 
wait  until  there  is  a  trouble  to  smooth 
out,  and  then  send  a  commission  to  fix 
it  up: 

The  Count  looked  for  a  moment  as  if 
he  suspected  that  he  was  being  trifled 
with;  but  noticing  the  kind,  sincere,  and 
even  earnest  expression  of  the  Repre- 
sentative, he  replied  with  a  pleasant 
little  laugh:  "Do  you  neglect  to  look 
after  your  automobile  until  you  have 
had  an  accident?  It  takes  a  great  effort 
to  convince  an  unfriendly  person  that 
what  seemed  an  insult,  or  an  injury,  was 
not  intended  to  be  one;  but  much  is 
overlooked  between  friends.  Your  sug- 
gestion appears  to  be  that  something 
may  be  done  to  heal  enmities,  but  that 
nothing  need  be  done  to  prevent  them, 
or  to  maintain  friendship.  The  diplo- 
matic body  throughout  the  world  is  an 
expression  of  friendly  relations,  assumes 
that  they  exist,  and  tries  to  deepen  and 
extend  them.  When  this  is  well  done, 
there  is  something  positive  to  break  the 
shock  produced  by  some  unfortunate 
incident.  To  destroy  that  body  uni- 
versally would  be  to  undo  all  the  past 
and  make  no  provision  for  the  future. 
As  between  European  governments,  such 
a  step  would  at  once  lead  to  a  state  of 
hostilities.  The  nations  of  the  world 
form  a  society  of  states — not  too  well 
organized,  it  is  true — but  a  real  society. 
You  know  what  it  means  to  withdraw 
abruptly  from  a  society  without  a  rea- 
son; and  what  reason  could  be  given?" 

"Economy,"  said  the  Representative; 
"that  and  the  incompatibility  between 
democratic  ideas  of  doing  things  and 
monarchical  ideas.  You  Europeans  have 
your  ways,  and  we  Americans  have  ours. 
I  mean  no  offense,  but  you  have  so  many 
frills;  there  is  so  much  gold  lace  about 
it  all,  so  much  silk  and  diamonds,  so 
much  high  living  in  marble  halls — you 
understand  I  don't  mean  to  be  offen- 
sive." 

The  Ambassador  looked  somewhat 
amused,  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  said: 
"I  know  perfectly  what  you  mean.  You 
are  perhaps  right.  All  the  world  is  com- 
ing to  think  that  too  much  show  and 
ceremony  is  undesirable.    If  you  will 


permit  me  to  be  as  frank  as  I  am  sure 
you  would  like  me  to  be,  let  me  say  that 
it  is  your  own  compatriots  who  are 
driving  us  a  little  in  Europe  just  now. 
You  have  improved  some  of  our  hotels, 
but  you  have  made  them  impossible  to 
us  Europeans.  They  have  become  too 
expensive  for  us.  It  is  true,  our  courts 
have  their  ways;  but  I  know  of  no  in- 
stance where  they  have  been  made  really 
uncomfortable  to  your  American  repre- 
sentatives, when  they  have  simply  been 
themselves  and  exercised  their  good  taste 
as  American  citizens — and  your  women 
are  always  charming." 

"Your  Excellency  flatters  us,"  said 
the  Representative,  blandly.  "My  trou- 
ble is  fundamental.  We  Americans  do 
not  want  to  be  unsocial  or  to  give  offense, 
and,  above  all,  to  seem  in  any  respect 
mean.  But  the  point  is  this:  We  want 
reasons  for  what  we  do.  My  constitu- 
ents are  plain,  but  kind  and  sensible 
people.  If  this  society  of  States  of  which 
you  speak  is  a  real  thing,  we  want  to  be 
in  it.  We  Americans  believe  in  peace, 
and  want  to  help  the  cause  of  peace  and 
good  feeling  in  the  world,  but  we  don't 
want  merely  to  seem  to  do  it.  Now  that 
we  have  The  Hague  Tribunal,  can't  we 
settle  all  our  differences  there?  Why 
do  we  not  all  go  on  simply  attending  to 
our  business;  and,  if  disagreements  arise, 
keep  on  with  our  business,  and  let  The 
Hague  Court  settle  them?" 

"A  court,"  said  the  Ambassador, 
"  seems  to  me  a  very  necessary  institu- 
tion, and  it  is  pleasant  to  hear  from  a 
member  of  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  such  noble  sentiments  as  you  have 
just  expressed  regarding  the  utility  of 
The  Hague  Court;  but  while  I,  too,  be- 
lieve in  the  usefulness  of  an  international 
tribunal  of  justice,  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  true  nature  of  its  high- 
est utility  may  be  very  easily  misappre- 
hended. My  own  private  feeling  is  that 
the  best  people  do  not  frequent  courts 
of  justice;  that  the  best  friends  are  not 
those  that  meet  oftenest  in  the  law- 
courts;  and  that  it  is  the  aim  and  en- 
deavor of  the  most  thoughtful  people,  as 
much  as  possible,  to  avoid  going  there 
altogether.  You  will,  of  course,  recall 
that  the  convention  which  established 
The  Hague  Court  provides  only  for  the 
adjudication  of  such  differences  as  it  has 


194 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


not  been  found  possible  to  settle  by 
diplomatic  negotiations.  Judging  by  the 
small  number  of  cases  that  have  been 
brought  before  the  Court,  and  of  course 
excluding  those  racial  conflicts  which  no 
court  could  prevent,  it  would  seem  as  if 
diplomacy  were  not  an  entirely  useless 
art." 

"Now  that  is  interesting !"  exclaimed 
the  Judge.  "It  would  save  us  judges  a 
great  deal  of  time  and  labor  if  private 
differences  could  be  settled  in  that  way, 
instead  of  crowding  our  court  calendars. 
By  the  way,  Your  Excellency,  what  is  it 
precisely  that  you  mean  by  diplomacy  ?" 

"Definitions  are  rarely  satisfactory," 
replied  the  Count,  "but  I  suppose  we 
might  say  that  diplomacy,  in  its  nar- 
row sense,  is  the  spirit  of  conciliation  in 
the  transaction  of  international  business. 
In  its  largest  sense,  it  is  the  endeavor 
to  accomplish  our  ends  by  intelligence 
rather  than  by  force." 

"That  is,  by  deception  and  bluff,"  re- 
marked the  advocate  of  the  theory  of 
political  rewards. 

"No,  not  that;  deception  and  bluff 
may  have  had  their  day.  They  have 
had  it  in  business  as  well  as  in  inter- 
national matters,  but  their  time  has 
passed.  Public  enlightenment  has  made 
mendacity  as  dangerous  as  it  is  dishon- 
orable. Diplomacy,  like  every  other  art, 
has  passed  through  many  stages  of  devel- 
opment, and  has  reached  a  higher  alti- 
tude than  it  has  ever  occupied  before." 

"Will  not  Your  Excellency  give  us  a 
little  sketch,  in  a  few  words,  of  what  it 
is  that  modern  diplomacy  aims  to  ac- 
complish?" asked  the  Judge. 

"I  have  just  been  reading  a  book  by 
one  of  your  American  writers,  in  which 
that  is  so  clearly  stated  that  I  copied  it. 
Here  it  is,"  and  he  drew  a  scrap  of  paper 
from  his  inside  coat-pocket.  "Shall  I 
read  it? 

States  are  independent  entities 
which,  in  their  powers  of  mutual  benefit 
and  injury,  and  their  attitudes  of  friend- 
liness and  hostility,  are  much  like  nat- 
ural persons.  They  need,  therefore,  to 
recognize  and  maintain,  as  it  were,  social 
relations  outside  of  their  jural  relations. 
These  must  be  mediated  through  liv- 
ing persons,  for  good  neighborhood  can 
never  be  reduced  to  mere  mechanism. 
There  is  required  a  constant  interchange 


of  courtesies,  of  friendly  communication, 
of  reassurance,  and  of  explanation.  This 
is  the  function  of  diplomacy.'" 

"But,"  said  the  Representative,  "so 
long  as  we  get  our  rights  from  our  neigh- 
bors, what  is  the  use  of  all  these  so- 
called  courtesies,  which,  after  all,  are 
mere  bowings  and  scrapings.  Can't  peo- 
ple be  friendly  without  always  leaning 
over  the  fence  to  say  so?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  Count,  "the  writer 
I  was  quoting  has  made  a  point  in  reply 
to  that.  May  I  read  another  paragraph? 

"'It  is  precisely  in  the  sphere  of  inter- 
ests that  are  not  yet  perfect  rights  that 
the  diplomatist  finds  his  chief  field  of 
usefulness.  He  represents  interests  far 
more  than  established  rights.  He  frames 
and  interprets  treaties,  which  furnish  a 
positive  foundation  for  rights.  He  re- 
calls their  existence,  sees  that  they  are 
applied,  and  where  they  fall  short  seeks 
to  extend  them,  or  at  least  to  see  that 
the  nations  continue  to  be  on  speaking 
terms  by  furnishing  in  his  person  a  chan- 
nel through  which  reason,  kindliness, 
and  mutual  comprehension  may  have 
free  passage."' 

"It  sounds  very  fine,"  said  the  Repre- 
sentative, "but  is  this,  after  all,  any 
more  than  some  man's  idea  of  what 
diplomacy  ought  to  be?  Does  it  repre- 
sent any  reality?  Has  it  ever  done  any- 
thing?" 

"There  are  still  a  few  words  in  the 
passage  I  have  copied  that  seem  to 
answer  that  question,"  said  the  Ambas- 
sador. 

"'Through  a  continuous  intermedia- 
tion, which  can  never  judiciously  boast 
of  its  success,  and  thrives  best  when 
least  ostentatious,  interests  are  not  only 
transformed  into  rights,  but  become  mu- 
tually recognized  as  such.  Whatever 
there  is  in  the  world  to-day  of  Inter- 
national Law  and  of  treaty  obligations 
has  been  gradually  brought  into  being 
by  diplomacy;  and,  together,  in  their 
aggregate,  imperfect  as  they  still  are, 
these  results  constitute  one  of  the  finest 
and  most  precious  fruits  of  civilization." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Representative, 
"  such  conferences  as  those  held  at  The 
Hague  advance  the  thought  of  the  world 
by  centuries,  and  even  outrun  the  course 
of  events.  Such  meetings  once  in  a 
while  may  do  good,  but  that  is  different 


WHY  DO  WE  HAVE  A  DIPLOMATIC  SERVICE  ? 


195 


from  keeping  it  up  all  the  time  by  hav- 
ing a  lot  of  embassies  and  legations." 

"You  seem  to  think  it  may  be  a  good 
thing  to  be  religious  on  Sundays,  but 
have  your  doubts  about  practising  re- 
ligion on  week-days,"  said  the  young 
lawyer,  with  a  snap  in  his  voice  that 
somewhat  irritated  the  Representative. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  Judge, 
"that  the  conferences  just  referred  to 
can  do  nothing  more  than  register  the 
progress  already  made  in  the  theory  and 
practice  of  the  governments  up  to  the 
time  when  those  conferences  were  held. 
If  it  were  otherwise,  a  single  one  would 
be  as  useful  as  a  dozen;  for  it  could 
simply  decree  what  was  ideally  right 
once  and  for  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
however,  each  conference  advances  a 
little  on  the  last,  merely  because  public 
opinion  and  diplomatic  practice  have 
advanced.  I  believe  the  writer  His  Ex- 
cellency has  quoted  is  right  when  he 
traces  the  development  of  international 
law  and  treaty  obligations  to  the  con- 
tinuous action  of  diplomatic  intercourse. 
If  that  be  so,  it  is  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance that  such  action  be  made  continu- 
ous. To  interrupt  it  would  be  like  cut- 
ting off  the  electric  current  and  still 
expecting  the  light." 

"Well,"  said  the  Representative, 
"there  may  be  something  in  all  this  of 
which  I  had  not  thought  before,  and  I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  the  Ambassa- 
dor for  what  he  has  said  to  us.  If  he  is 
as  plausible  in  what  he  says  to  our 
Secretary  of  State  as  he  is  in  what  he  has 
said  to  us  to-night,  I  imagine  he  could 
get  about  anything  we  could  afford  to 
give  him.  But,  as  I  have  said,  my  trou- 
ble is  fundamental.  Somehow  we  in 
America  do  not  seem  to  be  fitted  for 
diplomacy.  A  reader  of  our  newspapers 
would  certainly  get  the  idea  that  it  is 
all  a  good  deal  of  a  farce  for  us  to  take 
part  in  it.  They  guy  our  diplomats 
about  their  personal  affairs,  make  scan- 
dals about  their  behavior,  set  the  public 
mind  agog  about  who  will  go  here  and 
who  will  go  there,  or  what  they  will  do 
or  not  do  when  they  arrive  at  their  posts. 
This  is  wearisome.  It  does  not  seem  to 
happen  in  other  countries.  Will  not 
Your  Excellency  kindly  tell  us  why  that 
is  r 

"The  subject  is  rather  a  delicate  one 


for  a  foreigner,  and  especially  a  foreign 
diplomat,  to  touch,"  said  the  Ambassa- 
dor, "but  I  appreciate  your  interest  in 
it,  and  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  not  fancy 
me  in  any  sense  critical  if  I  frankly  state 
to  you  my  point  of  view.  You  will 
understand  that  it  is  purely  personal, 
that  my  government  would  never  dream 
of  passing  any  criticism  either  upon  your 
methods  or  their  results,  and  would  con- 
demn me  for  doing  so.  Your  question 
is,  why  do  some  annoying  circumstances, 
which  the  Representative  has  mentioned, 
not  attend  changes  in  the  diplomatic 
service  of  the  European  governments? 

"The  question  is  not  difficult  to  an- 
swer. Our  diplomatic  service  in  Europe 
is  as  completely  separated  from  party 
politics  as  the  army  and  the  navy. 
There  is  nothing  in  any  respect  casual 
or  extemporized  about  it,  because  it  is 
rigidly  standardized  on  the  basis  of  a 
strictly  governmental  representation, 
from  which  the  merely  personal  element 
is  absolutely  eliminated.  It  is  under- 
stood that  an  ambassador,  whoever  he 
may  be,  will  live  precisely  as  his  govern- 
ment ordains;  that  he  will  do  a  certain 
number  of  previously  determined  things; 
that  his  personality  will  be  absorbed  in 
his  office;  that  he  will  do  nothing  of,  or 
by,  or  for,  himself.  In  short,  his  line  of 
conduct  is  minutely  prescribed  for  him 
by  the  foreign  office  of  his  government." 

"Isn't  that  bureaucracy?"  asked  the 
clergyman,  rather  timidly. 

"Not  exactly,"  was  the  reply.  "It 
resembles  the  duty  of  a  missionary  to 
observe  the  ordinances  of  the  church 
that  sends  him  out  and  supports  him  in 
the  performance  of  his  work.  The  rules 
and  requirements  are  not  arbitrarily  laid 
down  by  irresponsible  persons.  They 
are  the  result  of  careful  study  and  delib- 
eration in  council  by  the  highest  authori- 

j.*  99 

ties. 

"What  then  does  Your  Excellency 
mean  by  Standardizing'  a  service?"  in- 
quired the  Representative. 

"Just  what  I  have  described:  provid- 
ing by  government  action  for  everything 
necessary  to  the  service  beforehand;  de- 
termining in  what  kind  of  a  house  the 
ambassador  shall  live,  how  it  shall  be 
furnished,  how  and  by  whom  it  shall  be 
cared  for  ;  what  he  shall  do  officially  in 
the  way  of  entertainment:  in  fact,  con- 


196 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


trolling  the  whole  situation  according  to 
well-considered  rules  and  principles." 

"That  seems  to  exclude  an  ambas- 
sador's personal  inclinations  almost  en- 
tirely," observed  the  Judge.  "I  doubt 
if  our  American  ambassadors  would  sub- 
mit to  that." 

"Of  course,  you  understand,"  observed 
the  Count,  "that  I  would  not  presume 
to  make  any  suggestions  regarding  your 
country  or  your  methods.  I  am  only 
trying,  and  very  inadequately,  to  de- 
scribe what  is  usual  in  Europe.  You 
know  that  our  system  positively  excludes 
personality,  as  such,  from  any  represen- 
tation on  its  own  account.  Our  diplo- 
mats are  not  permitted  to  do  or  claim 
anything  as  private  persons.  They  rep- 
resent the  sovereign  or  the  government, 
speak  and  act  in  their  names,  and  claim 
their  privileges  accordingly.  They  are 
like  officers  of  the  army  or  the  navy  in 
their  strict  subjection  to  the  State." 

"But,"  remarked  the  Representative, 
"you  seem  to  have  a  class  of  persons 
specially  adapted  to  this  kind  of  service: 
men  of  rank  and  of  great  wealth,  who 
fit  into  such  positions  and  can  afford  to 
hold  them." 

"As  to  rank,  that  was  once  more  com- 
monly considered  than  it  is  now;  but 
no  rank  except  that  of  a  royal  prince  is 
equal  in  Europe  to  that  of  an  ambassa- 
dor. Representing  the  sovereignty  of  a 
co-equal  nation,  he  comes  before  all 
others  in  rank,  except  the  members  of 
the  royal  family.  He  gives  the  pas  to  no 
one  else." 

A  look  of  astonishment  was  on  every 
face.  "What?"  said  the  clergyman, 
"  does  he  outrank  a  bishop  ?  How  strange 
some  of  our  American  representatives 
must  feel !  Do  they  not  recoil  from  this  ?" 

The  Count  could  not  repress  a  hearty 
laugh,  in  which  all  joined.  When  mental 
equilibrium  was  restored,  he  proceeded: 
"So  far  as  I  have  observed,  they  usually 
take  to  it  very  kindly;  and  why  should 
they  not?  Do  they  not  represent  a 
sovereign  power?  And,  even  more  than 
that,  are  they  not  in  your  democratic 
theory  themselves  sovereigns?" 

"But  the  uniforms,  the  gold  lace,  the 
cocked  hats,  the  swords  worn  by  the 
great  functionaries,  and  by  their  own 
colleagues,  do  they  not — our  Americans, 
I  mean — feel  strange  and  out  of  place?" 


The  Count  smiled,  but  looked  a  little 
embarrassed.  "In  Europe,"  he  said, 
"members  of  the  diplomatic  corps  wear 
uniforms  partly  to  indicate  their  rank, 
like  officers  oPthe  army  and  navy,  but 
chiefly  to  mark  their  character  as  be- 
longing to  a  particular  branch  of  the 
public  service.  It  is  merely  a  matter  of 
custom,  and  there  is  no  invariable  rule. 
Those  countries  which  prefer  to  give 
their  diplomatic  officers  more  of  a  civil, 
and  less  of  an  official,  character,  and  to 
place  upon  them  the  stamp  of  equality, 
do  not  prescribe  uniforms.  With  certain 
European  countries  they  are  merely  tra- 
ditional. Originally,  as  you  know,  they 
were  designed  to  signalize  the  fact  that 
the  wearer  was  a  servant  of  the  monarch. 
Those  who  are  proud  of  this  service  are, 
naturally,  proud  to  wear  them." 

"You  have  spoken  of  titles  and  dress, 
Excellency,  but  what  of  the  means  of 
keeping  up  the  expense  of  embassies?" 
inquired  the  Representative. 

"At  the  present  time  diplomatic  offi- 
cers of  every  rank  are  rarely  men  of 
great  wealth,  and  usually  contribute 
nothing  to  the  maintenance  of  their  em- 
bassies and  legations.  In  former  times 
monarchs  often  employed  their  wealthi- 
est nobles  for  this  service,  partly  to 
impress  foreign  peoples  with  their  wealth 
and  power,  and  partly  to  save  the  drafts 
on  the  royal  treasury  which  a  splendid 
representation  required.  They  regarded 
these  wealthy  subjects  as  in  some  sense 
their  own  property,  and  used  them  ac- 
cordingly. But  now  this  is  rare.  The 
constitutional  States  —  and  practically 
all,  imitating  your  American  example, 
have  become  constitutional — do  not  ex- 
ploit private  wealth  in  that  way.  It 
would  be  contrary  to  the  object  they 
have  in  view,  which  is,  to  show  by  their 
missions  the  friendly  feelings  and  inten- 
tions which  the  governments,  as  such, 
have  for  their  neighbors.  They  wish  it 
understood  that  it  is  the  government, 
not  an  individual,  that  is  represented; 
and  they  therefore  build  embassy  and 
legation  buildings  in  one  another's  capi- 
tals, and  make  liberal  provisions  for 
maintaining  them." 

"But  what  happens  to  government 
property  of  that  kind  if  a  war  breaks 
out?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"The  fact  that  such  pledges  of  amity 


WHY  DO  WE  HAVE  A 


DIPLOMATIC  SERVICE?  197 


exist  is  a  token  that  it  is  not  expected 
that  a  war  will  break  out.  They  are  so 
many  perpetual  reminders  of  peace  and 
good-will.  If  war  does  occur,  there  is  a 
mutual  interest  in  respecting  these  prop- 
erties. When  the  fighting  is  over  the 
diplomatists  are  the  people  who  are  to 
make  peace,  and  the  resumption  of  nor- 
mal relations  is  facilitated  by  the  exist- 
ence of  these  buildings.  The  assumption 
of  modern  civilization  is  that  war  is  an 
anomaly,  and  should  be  of  the  shortest 
possible  duration.  The  normal  relation 
of  civilized  nations  is  one  of  peace  and 
good-will." 

"  Can  a  poor  man — that  is,  a  man  with- 
out a  large  private  fortune — rise  to  the 
highest  position  in  the  diplomatic  service 
of  a  European  nation,  and  sustain  it?" 
inquired  the  young  lawyer. 

"The  majority  of  our  heads  of  mis- 
sions are  not  rich  men.  They  do  not 
need  to  be,  any  more  than  generals  and 
admirals  in  the  other  branches  of  the 
public  service.  They  are  generally  en- 
titled to  pensions  at  the  end  of  their 
period  of  activity,  according  to  their 
rank,  and  their  widows  also,  and  they  not 
only  accept,  but  frequently  need  them." 

"But  the  cost  of  all  this.  It  must  be 
immense,  the  houses,  the  maintenance, 
the  pensions.  I  should  think  the  plain 
people  would  rebel,"  remarked  the  Rep- 
resentative. 

"We  do  not  seem  to  rebel  at  our  pen- 
sions," remarked  the  young  lawyer. 

"There  is  no  country  in  the  world," 
continued  the  Count,  "whose  property 
in  this  form  would  greatly  exceed  the 
cost  of  a  single  first-class  battleship,  or 
whose  budget  shows  a  greater  net  annual 
expenditure  for  the  entire  foreign  service 
than  one-half  the  cost  of  such  a  vessel. 
The  best  war-vessel  ever  built  is  regarded 
as  fit  for  the  scrap-heap  after  a  few  years 
of  existence,  but  the  value  of  all  the 
embassy  and  legation  properties  owned 
by  foreign  governments  in  the  different 
European  capitals  has  increased  since 
they  were  acquired  from  twenty-five  to 
several  hundred  per  cent." 

"Does  Your  Excellency  think,"  in- 
quired the  Judge,  "that  if  more  atten- 
tion were  given  to  diplomacy  it  would 
be  possible  to  discontinue  military  and 
naval  appropriations?" 

"The  question  of  national  defense," 

Vol.  CXXVIII— No.  764.-25 


said  the  Count,  "is  always  a  relative 
one.  Wherever  a  dangerous  enemy  ex- 
ists, means  of  defense  are  necessary, 
unless  one  is  willing  to  be  dictated  to  by 
a  foreign  power;  but  the  kind  and 
amount  of  armament  needed  depend  en- 
tirely upon  the  extent  and  distribution 
of  territory  to  be  defended.  The  power 
to  act  effectively  often  renders  action 
unnecessary.  The  strong  nation  that  is 
known  to  have  peaceful  intentions  is  not 
only  safe,  but  respected." 

"Well,  Excellency,"  said  the  Repre- 
sentative, "we  seem  to  be  somewhat  be- 
hind the  rest  of  the  world  in  some  of 
these  matters.  What  would  you  advise 
us  to  do?" 

Count  Brysterand  arose,  lighted  a  cig- 
arette, and  said:  "Gentlemen,  I  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  patient  attention 
to  my  ill-expressed  remarks,  and  also  for 
the  profit  I  have  received  from  your 
interesting  observations.  I  am  sorry  to 
quit  your  company,  but  it  is  getting  late. 
I  am  sure  you  will  not  draw  any  wrong 
inferences  from  what  I  have  said.  My 
admiration  for  the  institutions  of  your 
country  and  for  the  spirit  of  your  people 
is  such  that  I  often  wish  that  some  of 
your  ideas  and  practices  could  be  im- 
ported into  my  own  country,  where 
everything  American  is  always  greeted 
with  a  hearty  welcome.  Good  night, 
gentlemen."  And,  cordially  shaking  each 
one  present  by  the  hand,  the  Count 
withdrew. 

"  He  didn't  seem  disposed  to  give  us  any 
advice,"  remarked  the  Representative. 

"I  think,"  said  the  young  lawyer,  "he 
meant  to  give  you  all  the  information  he 
could;  but  felt  it  would  be  unprofes- 
sional to  venture  upon  advice  to  a  legis- 
lator of  the  country  to  which  he  is 
accredited." 

In  the  coat-room  the  Representative 
said  to  the  Judge:  "Judge,  I  am  going 
to  introduce  a  bill  at  the  next  session  of 
Congress  for  the  standardization  of  our 
diplomatic  service." 

"You  will  be  much  older  than  you 
are  now  when  you  get  your  bill  out  of 
committee,"  remarked  the  first  speaker 
of  the  evening. 

"If  it  does  not  come  out  in  a  reason- 
able time,"  was  the  reply,  "I  shall  have 
something  to  say  both  to  the  committee 
and  to  the  country.    Good  night." 


The  Rules  of  the  Institution 


BY  SUSAN  GLASPELL 


HE  could  not  decide 
what  to  wear.  Never 
p  having  known  such  an 
occasion,  or  any  one 
who  had  known  a  like 
occasion,  how  could  she 
tell?  She  decided 
against  the  gown  she  was  wearing,  in 
which  she  had  poured  at  her  sister-in- 
law's  tea  that  afternoon,  as  possibly 
seeming  to  suggest  her  own  blessings. 
But  after  she  was  dressed  in  plain  shirt- 
waist and  skirt  as  most  in  keeping,  she 
took  them  off  as  too  significant  in  their 
plainness.  She  hated  the  way  she  had 
grown  self-conscious  about  it,  and  saying 
to  herself,  "I'll  wear  just  what  I  would 
if  going  to  spend  the  evening  with  any  of 
the  girls  I  know,"  put  on  a  simple  blue 
silk  frock  of  which  she  herself  was  par- 
ticularly fond. 

Her  mother  came  in  and  looked  her 
over  doubtfully.  "Going  to  wear  that? 
Well,  I  don't  know;  I  was  thinking  some- 
thing plain — not  to  make  her  feel  the 
difference.  And  still,  as  some  one  was 
saying  the  other  day,  perhaps  the  poor 
need  to  see  the  nice  things  we  have.  I 
suppose  it  is  one  way  of  giving  them 
pleasure." 

Judith  had  flushed.  "Mother,  don't 
look  at  it  that  way!  I  don't  want  to  get 
it  in  my  mind  that  way.  I'm  simply 
going  to  make  a  call — going  to  see  a  girl 
and  have  a  little  talk  with  her." 

"Well,  that's  very  nice  of  you.  That 
is  the  democratic  way,  I  suppose.  And 
still,  when  you  know  what's  underneath 
it—" 

"But  I'm  trying  to  forget  what's  un- 
derneath it,"  answered  Judith,  brightly. 

The  brightness  was  not  convincing, 
for  her  mother  remonstrated:  "I  don't 
think  they  should  have  asked  you  to  do 
it.  I  just  hate  to  have  you  go — a  young 
girl  like  you,  and  all  alone." 

"  But  that  was  the  point,"  said  Judith, 
with  deft  little  twists  at  the  blue  dress — 
"my  being  near  this  girl's  age.  Mrs. 


Emmons  proposed  it  —  though  it  was 
her  husband's  idea,  she  said.  That  sur- 
prised me.  I  didn't  suppose  he  had  any 
ideas." 

"Well,  really,  my  dear,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Brunswick  with  that  asperity  which 
edges  the  defense  of  a  contemporary  to 
a  critical  younger  generation,  "I  don't 
know  why  you  should  say  that.  I  went 
all  through  the  high  school  with  Charlie 
Emmons,  and  I  can  assure  you  he  had 
a  great  many  ideas." 

"Did  he?  He  seems  such  a— booster," 
laughed  Judith. 

"Well,  he  wasn't  born  a  booster.  And, 
for  that  matter,  he  didn't  want  to  go 
into  business.  His  folks  forced  that  on 
him — and  mighty  disappointed  he  was 
for  a  while.  Probably  he's  all  over  it 
now;  people  do  get  over  things,"  was 
her  comfortable  conclusion. 

"What  did  he  want  to  be?"  inquired 
Judith,  not  that  she  cared  particularly 
about  knowing,  but  that  she  might  hold 
her  mind  from  the  thing  before  her. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly;  go  on 
studying,  I  believe.  Write,  maybe.  Any- 
way, he  loved  books." 

Judith  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then, 
"I  hadn't  known  that,"  she  said,  simply, 
as  if  wanting  to  do  justice  where  she  had 
been  doing  injustice.  Something  about 
it  was  holding  her  mind,  for  her  mother 
had  to  ask  twice, 

"Going  to  wear  your  black  hat?" 

Mrs.  Brunswick  followed  her  daugh- 
ter down-stairs,  continuing  to  deplore 
her  errand.  "Now  my  dear," — voice 
and  manner  curiously  sharpened  in  say- 
ing it — "if  she  says  anything  horrid  to 
you,  just  get  right  up  and  leave!" 

"Oh  no,  mother,"  laughed  the  girl. 
"That  isn't  the  idea." 

"Judith,"  her  mother  commanded,  "I 
forbid  you  to  stay  there  if  she  is — un- 
pleasant to  you.  Simply  tell  her  that 
she  must  keep  the  rules  of  the  institu- 
tion, or  leave.  It's  simple  enough,  I'm 
sure. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  INSTITUTION 


199 


Her  brother  sauntered  out  from  the 
living-room.  "Off  to  see  the  erring 
daughter?" 

She  turned  sharply.  "Fred,  I  don't 
think  that's  a  very  nice  way  to  speak  of 
a  girl!" 

"No,  Fred,"  admonished  his  mother. 
"It  was  not — respectful." 

"You  would  have  put  it  stronger  than 
that  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  girls  of 
our  crowd,  mother,"  said  Judith,  abrupt- 
ly turning  away. 

Her  mother  followed  to  the  door,  pat- 
ting her  arm.  "There,  there,  dear, you're 
a  little  upset,  and  no  wonder.  Well, 
Henry's  here  with  the  car." 

Judith  drew  back.  "Mother!  I  don't 
want  the  car.  I  don't  want  to  go  there 
in  an  automobile!" 

"Nonsense!  Why, what  nonsense!  She 
probably  knows  you  have  an  automo- 
bile. Don't  get  silly  notions.  Henry, 
you  are  to  take  Miss  Judith  to  Severns 
Hall.  The  home  for  working-girls  on 
High  Street,"  she  added,  as  light  did 
not  break  over  Henry's  face.  After  the 
motor  had  started  down  the  driveway 
she  called,  "Just  tell  her  she's  got  to 
keep  the  rules!" 

The  thing  had  grown  intolerable  to 
Judith;  her  brother's  flippant  phrase, 
her  mother's  attitude,  forced  it  upon  her 
in  the  very  way  she  had  tried  not  to 
think  of  it.  Reprimanding  a  girl  for 
staying  out  late  at  night!  She  stayed 
out  late  at  night  herself.  How  utterly 
foolish  she  would  feel,  sitting  there  talk- 
ing goody-goody  talk  to  that  other  girl. 
Drawing  up  before  this  "working -girls' 
home"  in  an  automobile,  and  tripping 
in  and  laying  down  the  law  to  a  girl  who 
worked  for  her  living! 

"Henry,"  she  suddenly  called,  "let 
me  out  here.  Yes,  right  here.  And  you 
needn't  come  for  me.  I  have  another 
arrangement  for  getting  home."  As  she 
slammed  the  door  of  the  car  she  took  a 
vicious  satisfaction  in  the  consciousness 
that  certainly  Henry  would  think  it 
queer. 

She  gained  a  measure  of  composure  in 
walking  slowly  through  the.  soft  April 
night.  There  was  no  use  fussing  about 
it  now;  she  would  be  as  pleasant  as  she 
could  with  this  girl — just  as  natural  and 
nice  about  it  as  she  knew  how  to  be. 
She  would  simply  speak  of  how,  in  a 


place  like  that,  there  had  to  be  rules; 
how,  if  one  broke  them,  another  would; 
of  how  life  had  to  be  arranged  for  the 
greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number. 
She  took  heart  in  repeating  "the  greatest 
good  to  the  greatest  number." 

But  her  few  minutes  in  the  reception- 
room  with  the  matron  disheartened  her 
again.  The  woman's  official  motherli- 
ness  irritated  her.  She  was  too  self- 
conscious  in  the  delicacy  with  which  she 
spoke  of  the  errand  on  which  Miss  Bruns- 
wick had  come.  Judith  hated  the  at- 
mosphere of  conspiracy,  the  assumption 
of  superiority,  into  which  she  was  taken. 

"I  do  hope,"  Mrs.  Hughes  murmured, 
as  Judith  rose  to  go  to  the  girl's  room, 
"  that  you  will  not  find  her  disagreeable." 

"Why,  that  hardly  seems  likely,"  was 
Judith's  rather  cool  response. 

The  matron  shook  her  head.  "I  think 
I  should  warn  you  that  you  may  find  it 
harder  than  you  think.  I  have  tried 
to  get  Mary's  confidence,  but — She 
paused,  shaking  her  head.  "I  am  very 
much  afraid  there  is  something  in  her 
life  we  do  not  understand.  There's 
something  queer  about  her." 

With  this,  after  she  had  been  in  the 
girl's  room  five  minutes,  Judith  was  in 
private  agreement.  And  it  was  true  that 
it  was  harder  than  she  had  thought.  The 
moment  the  girl  looked  at  her  she  wanted 
to  run  away;  that  was  not  because  of 
rudeness,  or  any  tangible  offense,  but 
because  something  in  this  girl  made  her 
own  nicely  laid  little  plans  fall  back  as 
inadequate.  She  tried  to  be  pleasant; 
she  was  conscious  of  being  very  pleasant 
indeed,  and  of  being  at  the  same  time 
rather  futile  and  absurd  as  she  talked, 
for  example,  of  spring's  having  come. 

It  became  the  more  difficult  to  go  on 
because  a  gleam  in  Mary  Graham's 
black  eyes  suggested  an  amused  under- 
standing of  her  visitor's  predicament,  a 
vexing  appreciation  of  the  situation. 

"I  came  to  talk  with  you  about  some- 
thing, Miss  Graham,"  she  said,  with 
dignity. 

The  girl  nodded — for  all  the  world  as 
if  discreetly  amused. 

Judith,  doing  her  best  to  rise  out  of 
her  ruffled  feelings,  stated  the  case  with 
gentleness.  In  a  place  of  that  sort  there 
must  be  rules.  One  of  the  rules — and 
considering  the  greatest  good  to  the  great- 


200 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


est  number  it  seemed  a  wise  one — was 
that  the  girls  living  in  the  house  must  be 
in  at  nine  o'clock  at  night — unless  they 
had  stated  in  advance  that  they  would 
be  out  beyond  that  hour,  telling  why. 
To  be  sure — she  hastened  to  add,  Mary 
Graham  having  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
tassel  on  her  visitor's  dress  to  her  face 
and  then  lowered  them  again — some- 
times things  arose  one  had  not  known  of 
in  advance;  certainly  that  might  hap- 
pen, and,  if  explained,  would  be  met 
with  understanding,  she  was  certain. 
But  where  it  happened  continuously,  and 
was  not  explained,  even  when  explana- 
tion was  requested,  it  seemed  a  wilful 
violation  of  the  regulations. 

She  paused,  but  the  girl  to  whom  she 
had  been  speaking  did  not  reply.  As  if 
there  was  nothing  to  reply  to!  She  did 
not  know  why  she,  who  had  come  with 
the  kindliest  intentions  in  the  world, 
should  in  some  intangible  way — there 
was  the  grievance — be  made  to  feel  on 
the  defensive  and  ridiculous.  Her  voice 
was  less  gentle  as  she  said, 

"If  one  lives  in  an  institution  one  must 
expect  to  keep  its  rules." 

Mary  Graham  looked  at  her  then  as  if 
that  were  something  really  to  meet.  Her 
interested  gaze  was  a  penetrating  one. 
"I  suppose  so,"  she  said,  as  if  weighing 
it.  "Well" — her  eyes  left  Judith  and 
wandered  around  the  room — a  plain  but 
attractive  room.  Her  glance  lingered  for 
an  instant  on  the  white  bed.  Then  she 
said,  quietly,  "I'll  leave." 

It  startled  from  Judith  a  quick,  "Oh, 
not  that!" 

The  girl's  eyes  were  lowered  again  and 
she  did  not  raise  them  as  she  repeated, 
"  I'll  leave."  After  a  moment  she  looked 
up  at  Judith  with  a  glance  that  seemed 
to  be  inquiring  why  she  remained. 

"Why,  not  that,"  faltered  Judith,  but 
did  not  know  how  to  go  on.  It  was  not 
easy  to  talk  when  one  had  the  sense  of 
talking  only  to  the  outside  of  a  person. 
Yet  she  could  not  bear  to  go.  Nor  was  it 
her  pride  alone  which  rose  against  her 
going  like  that.  Something  in  the  girl 
strangely  drew  her.  She  wanted  to 
reach  the  things  locked  in. 

"You  haven't  liked  it  here?"  she 
asked,  timidly. 

Again  the  girl  raised  her  eyes,  and,  as 
if  sensitive  to  change,  did  not  immedi- 


ately lower  them.  "Why,  yes,  I've  liked 
it  here — in  most  ways,"  she  said.  She 
appeared  to  forget  Judith  and  to  be 
brooding  over  her  own  situation;  the 
heavy  brows  drawn,  her  face  was  almost 
menacingly  somber.  After  a  moment 
there  escaped  from  her  a  violent,  "I 
hate  it  down-town!" 

Immediately  she  drew  back  into  her 
retreat,  so  far  within  it  that  Judith  could 
sit  watching  her,  fascinated  by  that 
smoldering  quality,  drawn  by  some- 
thing that  in  a  rude  sense  seemed  power. 
She  observed  details  about  her — those 
little  things  that  often  point  the  way. 
There  was  no  working-girl's  finery,  but 
neither  was  there  anything  that  seemed 
contrived  in  her  plainness;  cheap  white 
shirt-waist,  black  serge  skirt — evidently 
her  interest  was  not  in  clothes.  She  had 
a  great  deal  of  black  hair  which  was  done 
low  and  uncaringly.  Her  color  was  not 
good  and  her  features  were  too  heavy 
for  beauty.  Judith  felt  that  she  would 
be  quite  different  if  what  smoldered 
within  blazed  through.  She  wanted  to 
know  more  of  her — more  than  there 
seemed  any  chance  of  her  knowing.  She 
was  about  twenty,  Mrs.  Emmons  had 
said,  and  worked  in  the  corset-factory, 
where  she  was  skilful  and  had  a  good 
position — as  those  positions  went,  she 
had  hazily  added.  Yet  she  was  not  a 
success  as  a  worker,  Judith  had  been 
told;  she  had  lost  several  positions 
through  what  seemed  shiftlessness — stay- 
ing away  and  being  late.  "There  seems 
something  unruly  about  her,"  Mrs.  Em- 
mons had  said;  "not,"  she  had  chari- 
tably added,  "that  you  can  put  your 
finger  on  anything  wrong." 

"But  if  you  like  it  here  better  than 
down -town,"  Judith  ventured  after  a 
moment,  "why  do  you  change?" 

The  girl  raised  sullen  eyes  and  replied 
with  a  short,  disagreeable  laugh.  "For- 
got what  you  just  said?" 

Judith  flushed,  but  replied,  quietly:  "I 
didn't  say  leave.  I  meant  stay  here  and 
keep  the  rules." 

"  Oh  yes,  stay  here  and  keep  the 
rules!"  she  mocked.  "It's  easy  enough, 
isn  t  it  r 

"The  others  do,"  said  Judith. 

"The  'others'!"  she  scoffed,  adding, 
under  her  breath,  "Don't  talk  to  me 
about  the  'others.'" 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  INSTITUTION 


201 


There  was  a  pause, 
and  then  Judith,  nerv- 
ously, somehowfeeling 
herself  to  be  speaking 
as  a  child  speaks,  began 
to  say  how  Mrs. 
Hughes  was  reasona- 
ble, and  if  once  in  a 
while  something  came 
up  one  had  not  known 
of  in  advance — 

"  You  always  know, 
when  you  start  out 
anywhere,  how  long 
you're  going  to  be 
gone?"  came  the  sav- 
age interruption. 

"No,"  honestly  re- 
plied Judith.  After 
a  minute  she  forced 
herself  to  say,  "And 
yet,  if  there  are,  as  you 
implied,  advantages  in 
living  here,  might  it 
not  be  worth  while  to 
give  in  on  that  point 
and — " 

Again  she  was  inter- 
rupted; not  at  first  by 
words,  but  by  the  blaze 
of  passion  in  the  girl's 
eyes. 

"'Give  in'!"  she  cried.  "'Give  in'! — 
that's  just  it.  That's  all  there  is  to  life 
— this  'give  in,'  and  'give  in'  and  'give 
in.'  What's  left  ?  That's  what  I'd  like 
you  to  tell  me!  That's  what  I  want 
to  know  before  I  'give  in'  any  more 

Judith,  staggered,  could  not  reply,  and 
the  girl,  powerless  to  hold  back  what  had 
been  loosened,  broke  out  again:  "I  tell 
you  I'm  tired  of  giving  in!  It's  nothing 
but  'give  in.'  Why" — her  eyes  nar- 
rowed as  she  shot  this  through  the  tu- 
mult of  her  feeling — "the  whole  thing  s 
an  institution,  and  you're  to  keep  the 
rules  of  that  institution,  and  to  do  that 
you  give  in,  till  after  a  while  you  aren't 
there.    I  tell  you  I  know!    You  go/" 

A  little  cry  escaped  from  Judith  Bruns- 
wick, sitting  far  forward  in  her  chair. 
"Why — I  know  that,"  she  gasped. 
"Why— I  know  that!" 

"I'll  tell  you  where  I  go  at  night  some- 
times." The  other  girl  tossed  her  head, 
as  if  defending  her  inmost  stronghold. 
"I'll  tell  you  where  I  was  the  other 


Give  in  !"  she  cried.   "  That's  all  there  is  to  Life  " 


night  when  I  came  in  after  eleven 
and  Mrs.  Hughes  said  she  would  have 
to  'speak  to  the  ladies.'  I  wasn't  at  a 
dance-hall";  she  laughed,  mockingly. 
"Though  I  would  have  been,"  she  threw 
in  darkly,  "if  I'd  wanted  to  be.  I  wasn't 
with  a  man  at  all.  I — "she  halted,  then 
said,  so  simply  that  it  was  moving,  "I 
don't  know  any  man  I'd  care  about  being 


202 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


with.  I  was  by  myself.  I  took  a  walk. 
I  was  trying" — the  defiance  had  fallen 
from  her,  leaving  her  quite  exposed — 
"  trying  to  get  back  to  myself;  back — " 
There  was  a  break  in  her  voice,  but  her 
eyes  went  on. 

"I  walked  a  long  way  up  the  river; 
up  to  a  place  I  know,  where  you  can  see 
far  things.    It  was  moonlight.    I  sat  on 


"  I  SAT  A  LONG  TIME — WONDERING  " 


a  hill  a  long  time,  not  thinking  about 
what  time  it  was.  I  was — "  Again  she 
broke  ofF,  shook  herself  as  if  in  disgust 
at  her  poor  powers,  then  demanded,  with 
a  little  laugh  at  once  wistful  and  hard, 
"When  you're  educated,  can  you  tell 
things?" 

But  Judith's  reply  was  checked  by  the 
new  feeling  that  flamed  in  the  girl's  face. 
"Do  you  ever  feel  it?"  she  cried.  "That 
life's  rushing  past  you? — rushing  right 
past  you?  Do  you  ever  want  to  reach 
out  with  your  two  hands  and  take  it?" 
She  was  leaning  forward,  clenching  her 
hands  as  if  seizing  upon  something. 
"Do  you  ever  feel  that  something's 
swinging  shut?  Something  that  won't 
open  again?  Like  something  in  you  had 
been  beaten  back? — something  really 
you,  beaten  back  till  it  doesn't  often 
move  any  more?  Oh,  I  try  to  make  my- 
self a  wooden  thing!  But  there  come 
those  times  when  you  knoiv— and  then — 
then — "  She  came  to  a  stop.  "Then 
the  wooden  thing  gets  smashed  a  little," 
was  all  she  could  say,  and  tried  to  laugh. 

After  a  moment  she  looked  up  at 
Judith  to  say,  "I'll  tell  you  what  I  was 
doing  the  other  night.  I  was  thinking 
about  God." 

She  laughed,  partly  in  embarrassment, 
and  sat  there  tilting  one  foot  on  the  tip 
of  the  other.  Then,  as  if  not  quite  sure 
of  Judith,  after  all,  she  added,  defen- 
sively, "Not  like  church." 

Judith  only  nodded,  but  her  eyes  re- 
assured that  in  Mary  Graham  which  had 
never  before  ventured  from  its  fastness. 
Freed  now,  it  swept  up  and  possessed 
her;  hushed  before  it,  she  sat  there  mar- 
veling. Then,  not  wanting  to  lose  this 
first  touch  with  another  human  soul,  she 
said,  timidly, 

"The   other   night  —  up    the  river 
there,  I  —  I  was  wondering." 

She  was  as  if  bathed  in  mys- 
tery when  she  slowly  repeated, 
in  a  voice  touched  at  once  with 
the  pain  and  the  glory,  "I  was 
wondering." 

At  three  o'clock  that  next 
afternoon  Judith  Brunswick 
was  to  report  to  the  house 
committee  of  the  Woman's 
Club  on  the  case  of  Mary  Gra- 
ham— what  she  had  been  able 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  INSTITUTION 


203 


to  "do"  with  her.  What  had  she  been 
able  to  "do"  ?  It  was  not  until  after  she 
had  said  good  night  to  the  matron,  whose 
deference  did  not  conceal  her  disappoint- 
ment in  not  being  confided  in,  had 
closed  the  door  of  Severns  Hall  behind 
her,  and  was  out  in  the  fragrant  night 
that  she  thought  of  the  house  committee 
and  how  she  had  failed  it. 

When  she  got  home  she  had  been  re- 
lieved to  find  that  her  mother  was  at  a 
neighbor's.  She  could  put  offher  brother, 
who  teasingly  inquired,  "Find  out  all 
you  wanted  to  know  about  the  unfortu- 
nate sister?"  She  went  up  to  her  room, 
wanting  to  be  alone  with  what  she  had 
found  out  about  Judith  Brunswick.  A 
whole  new  world  was  opening  from  the 
fact  that  the  very  thing  that  pressed 
against  the  surface  of  her  own  life  was 
there — more  powerful,  more  passionate 
in  the  life  of  Mary  Graham.  It  was  the 
same  revolt  against  the  eating  in  of  cus- 
tom, against  the  closing  down  of  routine 
around  one;  the  same  outreaching  from 
grooves  of  living  one  had  been  forced 
into,  that  same  flutter  of  the  soul  against 
the  "giving  in." 

For  two  years  Judith  Brunswick  had 
been  home  from  college;  they  were  two 
years  of  giving  in.  This  was  what  Mary 
Graham  shot  home  to  her  now:  "Give 
in — give  in — give  in!    What' s  left?" 

She  stood  before  the  bookcase,  run- 
ning her  hand  across  the  backs  of  the 
books.  They  were  the  books  she  had 
brought  home  from  school.  She  had 
liked  having  them  in  her  room;  often 
before  going  to  bed  she  would  take  one 
of  them  and  read  awhile,  perhaps  less 
for  the  things  read  than  for  the  moment's 


touch  with  things  that  seemed  slipping 
from  her.  Sinking  to  the  low  chair  be- 
fore the  shelves,  she  sat  there  for  a  long 
time. 

She  had  come  home  from  school  with 
that  fine  sense  of  life  as  not  a  fixed  thing, 
but  a  thing  of  continuously  unfolding 
possibilities;  conscious  of  herself  as  alive 
and  the  world  as  wonderful,  eager  to  be 
a  living  part  of  the  fecund  age  she  had  a 
sense  of  living  in.  Life  was  a  thing  to 
do  with  to  one's  utmost.  She  was  going 
to  "do  something." 

Then  she  got  home,  where  things  were 
all  shaped  ahead  and  she  was  expected 
to  form  herself  into  a  pattern  that  had 
been  made  for  her.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  well-to-do  man  of  a  middle- 
Western  town.  It  was  no  part  of  her  plan 
to  shut  herself  in  with  the  money  her 
father  had  made.  That  money  might 
express  her  father;  it  in  no  sense  ex- 
pressed her.  She  would  form  her  own 
place,  and  in  her  own  way. 

Looking  back  to  it  now,  it  was  both 
interesting  and  terrible  to  her  to  see  how 
one  little  thread  and  then  another  had 
been  thrown  around  her,  drawing  her 
into  the  pattern  formed  for  Judith 
Brunswick,  "society  girl"  in  that  town. 
Her  married  sister  was  deep  in  society; 
so  was  her  sister-in-law,  and  so  were  all 
the  girls  she  knew.  It  had  been:  "But 
of  course  you're  coming  to  my  tea?" — 
"But,  Judith,  why 
wouldn't  you  go?" 
"Just  because  you've 
gone  to  college,  are  you 
such  a  'high-brow'  that 
you  have  to  cut  us 
all?"— until  she  could 


The  old  Sense  of  the  Wonder  and  Ia\perativeness  of  Life  broke  through 


204 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


fairly  feel  herself  fitting  into  the  pattern 
formed  for  her.  She  had  wondered  at 
times,  longingly  thinking  of  her  college 
friends,  if  it  was  because  all  of  them  had 
been  out  of  the  places  formed  for  them 
that  they  had  seemed  so  much  more 
individual  and  alive  than  girls  she  knew 
in  this  other  way.  Mary  Graham  had 
said  it:  something  had  been  swinging 
shut,  something  that  might  not  open 
again;  life  was  going  past  her;  she  was 
not  reaching  out  and  taking  it.  She 
had  made  poor  little  attempts — such  as 
joining  the  Woman's  Club.  Even  that 
laid  her  open  to  the  taunt  "high-browT" 
— the  wa)'  her  young  social  set  dismissed 
all  things  it  had  neither  brain  to  cope 
with  nor  spirit  to  aspire  to.  She  grew 
more  and  more  sensitive  about  revealing 
her  dissatisfaction  when  it  seemed  she 
could  not  even  define,  much  less  attain, 
the  things  she  did  want,  until  at  last, 
unable  to  see  the  path,  she  grew  timid  in 
asserting  her  wish  to  get  there.  She  had 
no  sense  of  movement  now,  only  a  going 
round  and  round  in  one  small  place. 
And  that  place  claimed  a  toll  from  her 
spirit:  powers  unused  becoming  enfee- 
bled, enthusiasms  unclaimed  growing 
dimmed,  things  unattained  becoming 
less  real.  The  very  doing  of  things  gave 
them  a  hold  on  her.  She  grew  disgusted 
with  herself,  and  that  sullened  her  spirit; 
distrustful  of  herself,  and  that  was  weak- 
ening. It  seemed  she  had  not  been 
worth  anything  else,  after  all,  or  she 
would  not  have  been  caught  like  that. 
She  saw  the  absurd  side  of  her  predica- 
ment, and  that  was  quenching.  "  Poor 
girl — her  family  don't  understand  her! 
A  prisoner  in  one  of  the  finest  houses  in 
town!  Forced  to  wear  stunning  clothes 
and  spend  her  time  enjoying  herself!" — 
so  would  go  the  town's  laugh  for  it. 

And  now  this  Mary  Graham  had 
brought  things  to  life  again!  The  old 
sense  of  the  wonder  and  the  imperative- 
ness of  life  broke  through.  Once  more 
life  challenged  her  and  the  old  sense  of 
power  surged  up  to  meet  the  challenge. 
She  had  known  there  was  a  fight; 
through  Mary  Graham  it  was  made  real 
to  her  that  it  was  a  fight  for  freeing  life. 
She  laughed  at  herself  for  having  felt 
"sensitive"  about  her  dissatisfaction 
with  life  gone  stale.  Not  ridiculous  be- 
cause wanting  something  she  did  not 


have,  but  ridiculous  because  not  getting 
that  something!  Her  mind  shot  out  into 
this  plan  and  that;  she  would  go  to  the 
city — study,  work,  look  up  some  of  the 
girls  who  had  gone  on,  get  her  bearings. 
She  would  find  her  own.  Well,  Mary 
Graham  was  her  own.  She  would  reach 
her — would  break  through  the  separate 
crusts  place  and  custom  had  formed 
about  them.  And  Mary  Graham  must 
find  her  own;  Mary  Graham  must  find 
her  place.  She  glowed  with  thoughts  of 
what  the  girl  might  come  to  mean  if  her 
passion  were  directed  to  that  new  feeling 
in  the  world  that  would  free  life  from  the 
rules  of  the  institution. 

The  next  afternoon,  while  getting 
ready  for  the  meeting,  she  realized  that 
the  things  she  had  been  feeling  would 
not  be  easy  to  put  into  a  report  to  the 
house  committee.  And  when  finally  sit- 
ting with  the  four  women  who,  with  her- 
self, comprised  that  committee,  she  was 
newly  and  horribly  conscious  of  how 
hard  it  would  be  to  say  the  only  things 
she  had  to  offer.  Perhaps  it  was  just 
part  of  what  she  scornfully  called  her 
spinelessness  (her  friends  would  call  it 
her  sweet  nature) — but  other  people  did 
complicate  things  so!  It  was  so  much 
easier  to  be  fine  and  fearless  by  yourself 
than  with  people  who  assumed  you  were 
like  them.  If  only  one  could  be  at  all 
sure  of  "putting  it  over" — not  having 
one's  feelings  go  sprawling  about  in  ridic- 
ulous forms  of  expression.  The  very  cut 
of  Mrs.  Emmons's  new  spring  suit  seemed 
to  seal  one  in — so  confident  and  serene 
it  was.  And  the  aigrettes  on  Mrs.  Van 
Camp's  hat  and  the  way  that  appallingly 
efficient  little  lady  held  her  hand -bag 
beat  back  all  things  one  could  not  put 
into  exact  terms.  Then  there  was  Miss 
Hewitt,  who  worked  with  her  mother  in 
the  church  guild  and  whom  her  mother 
called  a  "lovely  woman."  And  the 
fourth  member,  Mrs.  Stephens,  made  it 
no  easier,  for  Judith  had  been  assured 
Mrs.  Stephens  had  a  delicious  sense  of 
humor,  and  what  she  knew  of  her  made 
her  feel  it  was  not  the  humor  to  break 
out  into  understanding,  but  the  kind 
that  stays  within  and  settles  to  self- 
satisfaction.  They  were  not  women  to 
whom  it  would  be  easy  to  talk  of  Mary 
Graham — or  Judith  Brunswick. 

As  she  listened  to  other  reports  about 


'  Mary  Graham  can't  very  well  keep  that  Rule,"  she  said 


the  Home  their  complacency  became  an 
irritant  to  her  own  uncertainty.  They 
did  not  find  life  complex — perplexing. 
They  seemed  so  sure  of  themselves;  an 
assumption  of  their  own  superiority  was 
apparently  the  groundwork  of  their  en- 
deavors. There  shot  into  her  mind  a 
wicked  little  desire  to  see  that  ground- 
work shaken.  She  had  not  known  what 
she  was  going  to  say,  and  now,  as  she 
listened  to  Mrs.  Van  Camp's  perfect 
little  plan  for  making  something  move 
on  in  just  the  way  it  should  go,  she  saw 
that  she  could  "give  them  a  jolt." 

Vol.  CX XVIII— No.  764.-26 


Mrs.  Emmons  said  Miss  Brunswick 
would  tell  them  of  the  girl  at  the  Home 
who  had  been  so  unruly. 

Judith  leaned  forward  in  her  most  en- 
gaging manner.  "Mary  Graham  can't 
very  well  keep  that  rule,"  she  said. 
"You  see,  when  she  goes  out  she  can't 
tell  just  when  she  may  care  to  come  in. 
After  all,"  she  added  in  a  warm,  cordial 
voice,  "how  can  one?" 

Mrs.  Emmons  dropped  her  handker- 
chief; Judith  stooped  and  returned  it 
to  her  with  a  smiling  nod.  All  were 
staring  at  her.   Mrs.  Van  Camp's  mouth 


206 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


She  could  see  the  Factory 
where  Mary  Graham  worked 


had  fallen  a  little  open.  Then  it  shut  up 
tight  and  she  straightened. 

"But — but,  my  dear  Miss  Judith," 
Mrs.  Emmons  finally  gasped;  "but — 
when — " 

"When  one  lives  in  an  institution," 
cut  in  the  incisive  voice  of  Mrs.  Van 
Camp,"  one  must  keep  the  rules  of  that 
institution." 


Judith  turned  to  her, 
sweetly  earnest.  "That's 
just  what  I  thought  before 
I  talked  with  her.  But 
you  see  I  came  to  see  it 
was  not  good  for  her  soul 
to  keep  the  rules  of  the  in- 
stitution." She  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  nodding 
a  little,  as  if  she  had  cleared 
that  up. 

"Well,  we  can't  help  it 
about  her  soul,"  sharply 
began  Mrs.  Van  Camp, 
but,  at  a  movement  from 
the  chairman,  stopped. 

"Her  soul,"  gently  cor- 
rected Mrs.  Emmons,  "is 
just  what  we  care  most 
about.    But  will  you 
please  make  clear  to  us, 
dear  Miss  Judith,  how  there  can  possibly 
be  any  harm  to  her  soul  in  keeping  the 
rules  of  that  institution?" 

"She  takes  walks  at  night,"  said  Ju- 
dith, and  saying  it  swept  her  back  to  her 
deep  feeling  for  the  thing  itself  until  she 
forgot  her  use  of  it  as  a  spiritual  bomb. 
"She  does  this  that  she  may  find  her- 
self; that  life  may  not  completely  shut 
her  in.  It  is  the  life  in  her  breaking 
through.  The  other  night  she  walked  a 
long  way  up  the  river  and  sat  where  she 
could  see  far  things."  She  hesitated, 
then  finished,  even  more  quietly,  "She 
was  thinking  about  God." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  came  the  quick 
retort  from  Mrs.  Van  Camp. 

Mrs.  Emmons  cleared  her  throat. 
"We  shouldn't  say  that  we  do  not  be- 
lieve it,  perhaps,"  she  began,  uncertainly. 
She  looked  at  Judith,  helplessly  and  in 
appeal.   "It  does  seem — most  unusual." 

Mrs.  Stephens's  sense  of  humor  was 
not  illumining  to  the  discussion  that  fol- 
lowed, satisfying  itself  in  amusement  at 
the  humorlessness  of  her  fellow-mem- 
bers. Miss  Hewitt  looked  frightened  and 
pained;  and  yet  there  was  one  moment 
when  Judith  looked  at  her,  as  she  was 
looking  out  of  the  window,  which  made 
her  suspect  that  something  buried  un- 
der the  years  that  made  her" a  "lovely 
woman"  stirred.  Nothing  remained' 
buried,  however,  in  the  breast  of  Mrs. 
Van  Camp.  In  the  first  place,  she 
briskly  and  capably  attacked  it;  it  was 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  INSTITUTION 


207 


not  safe.  Why,  the  girl  might  be  ar- 
rested! It  would  give  the  Hall  a  queer 
name.  Even  if  she  did  go  out  to  think 
about  God  the  rules  could  not  be  sus- 
pended. It  would  just  make  an  opening 
for  other  girls  to  get  out  to  a  dance-hall. 
Why  couldn't  she  think  about  God  in  the 
house?  Or  there  was 
the  yard — a  nice  yard. 
Where  did  she  go  to 
church?  Her  minister 
should  look  into  it.  She 
should  not  be  encour- 
aged in  such  queer 
things  —  it  would  take 
her  mind  from  her  work. 
Mrs.  Emmons  was  more 
mild,  but  no  less  per- 
turbed. It  was  deeply 
disconcerting  not  to  be 
able  to  condemn  a  thing 
that  led  to  the  breaking 
of  a  rule. 

Judith  felt  her  antag- 
onism against  them  ris- 
ing. They  stood  for  the 
things  holding  her  in — 
things  that  held  every 
one  in.  They  arranged 
an  order;  that  order 
must  be  subscribed  to. 
They  made  rules;  those 
rules  must  be  kept. 
There  was  no  sympathy 
with  a  thing  that  broke 
into  things  as  they  had 
planned  them.  Why 
should  one  wish  to  do  a 
thing  that  was  not  cus- 
tomary? 

"You  think  it  alto- 
gether absurd  ?"  Judith 
asked,  her  voice  sharp-edged.  "Quite 
absurd,  you  think,   that  she  should  not 
find  her  life  satisfying? — should  want 
more  from  it  than  she  is  getting?" 

Mrs.  Emmons  murmured  something 
about  pleasures  and  classes  for  the  work- 
ing-girls. 

Judith  shook  her  head;  she  knew  that 
she  could  not  make  it  plain;  she  was  not 
considering  that,  but  was  being  drawn 
back  to  Mary  Graham — a  living  soul 
beating  against  the  things  that  shut  her 
in.  Sitting  here  with  these  women  she 
had  a  sharpened  sense  of  what  those 
things  were.    It  was  as  if  there  was 


Something  in 
up  and  made 


represented  here  the  whole  order  that 
locked  one  away  from  life.  And  with 
that  came  anew  the  sense  of  the  wonder 
and  the  preciousness  of  life — life  that 
could  persist  through  so  much,  bear  so 
much,  and  go  on  wanting.  She  spoke 
from  out  this  feeling  when  she  mur- 
mured, "The  other 
night  —  up  the  river 
there — she  was  wonder- 
mg. 

Her  face  was  so  puz- 
zling, her  voice  so 
strange,  that  there  was 
a  moment's  silence  be- 
fore Mrs.  Van  Camp 
demanded,  "What 
about?" 

Judith  was  to  have 
gone  to  a  tea  after  the 
committee  meeting. 
She  did  not  want  to 
go;  neither  did  she  want 
to  go  home.  She  took 
a  car  to  the  outskirts  of 
town  and  walked  a  long 
way  up  the  river  road, 
climbing  a  hill.  She 
was  sure  this  was  the 
hill  from  which  Mary 
Graham  had  seen  far 
things. 

But  she  kept  turning 
from  the  far  things  of 
that  open  country  to  the 
town  that  also  was 
there.  She  could  see 
the  house  she  lived  in; 
she  could  see  the  fac- 
tory where  Mary  Gra- 
ham worked.  Those 
things  were  there.  They 
were.  A  long  time  she  sat  looking  back 
at  that  town,  and  something  in  its  fixity 
was  quelling.  It  seemed  that  she,  and 
Mary  Graham,  and  all  the  other  people 
there,  had  been  caught  by  that  town.  It 
made  her  wonder  if  she  hadn't  been  un- 
fair to  those  club  women.  What,  after  all, 
did  she  expect  them  to  do?  That  was  the 
way  things  were.  Things  were  already 
built  up,  just  as  that  town  was  built  up 
— fixed.  Precious  life  had  been  caught 
in  that  building,  but  was  there  escape 
from  things  so  powerful  in  their  fixity? 
As  she  continued  to  look,  there  forced 
itself  upon  her  a  sense  of  how  all  things 


HER  LEAPED 
HER  STRONG 


208 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


were  related.  That  relation  of  things 
was  what  towns  expressed.  It  was  no 
small  thing,  after  all,  to  disturb  the  lives 
of  a  number  of  other  people,  people  who 
loved  her  and  whom  she  loved.  It 
seemed  that  affection  and  obligation 
were  agents  holding  one  to  one's  place, 
as  if  they  had  some  subtle  cohesive  power 
that  interlay  and  held  together  the  mate- 
rial things  making  that  town.  It  was 
not  so  simple.  It  was  not  simple  at  all. 
Walking  slowly  back  down  the  river 
road,  it  was  hard  to  put  down  the  ques- 
tioning whether  she  was  not  held  by 
things  stronger  than  herself. 

She  stepped  aside  for  an  automobile 
to  pass.  Realizing  that  she  knew  the 
man  rushing  by  in  it,  she  bowed,  but  it 
was  not  until  after  he  was  past  that  she 
wondered  if  it  was  not  Mrs.  Emmons's 
husband.  The  car  had  come  to  a 
crunching  stop  and  there  were  hurrying 
footsteps.  She  was  considering  whether 
to  turn,  when  her  name  was  called  and 
she  looked  back  to  see  that  it  was  indeed 
Charlie  Emmons,  as  her  mother  called 
him — he  who  had  suggested  that  Judith 
be  sent  to  see  Mary  Graham. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Brunswick,"  he 
was  saying.  "Hope  I  didn't  startle  you, 
but  I  was  so  interested  in  that  meeting 
of  yours  this  afternoon — about  that  girl. 
I  met  my  wife  and  took  her  home  in  the 
car;  she  was  telling  me  about  it — some 
of  the  things  the  girl  said  to  you.  I 
don't  know  why  I  should  be  so  inter- 
ested," he  laughed,  after  an  instant's 
pause  in  which  Judith  had  not  known 
just  what  to  say,  "but  something  about 
it  does  interest  me.  Maybe  because  I 
used  to  have  somewhat  the  same  feeling 
myself — when  I  was  young." 

He  laughed,  embarrassed  at  the  con- 
fession, and  some  quality  in  that  em- 
barrassment made  it  easy  for  Judith, 
once  into  it,  to  tell  of  Mary  Graham. 
He  kept  nodding,  as  if  understanding. 
His  face  looked  as  though  he  did  under- 
stand. "Well,"  he  said,  "it's  a  feeling 
that  comes  to  some  of  us — when  we  are' 
young."  He  laughed  again,  and  was 
looking  off  at  the  river. 

"But  we  get  over  it,"  he  said,  coming 
back,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  nearer  his 
usual  brisk  businesslike  tone.  "We 
have  to  play  the  game,  you  know — and, 
yes,  we  do  have  to  keep  the  rules." 


As  much  as  anything  else  it  was  the 
change  in  him  in  saying  it  that  sum- 
moned everything  in  her  to  resist  it  now 
— that  same  thing  to  which  she  herself 
had  been  close  just  a  little  while  before. 

"Even  though  it  might  be  the  finest 
thing  in  us  tried  to  break  through?"  she 
asked,  the  fighting  edge  to  her  voice. 

"Oh — the  finest  thing  in  us.  .  .  ."  he 
muttered,  and  was  again  looking  off  at 
the  river. 

She  watched  him.  Here  was  one  who 
had  given  in,  overcome  by  things  that 
were  fixed;  held,  perhaps,  in  the  mesh 
of  affection.  And  now  he  was  something 
different;  something  made  by  the  things 
he  had  given  in  to. 

Sharply  it  came  to  her  that  that  was 
the  price  paid  for  the  giving  in.  One 
changed;  some  things  died  down,  other 
things  developed,  until  the  balance  was 
different.  One's  quality  changed.  She 
knew  that,  for  she  had  begun  to  change 
in  just  two  years.  One  settled  down 
into  the  feeling  that  one  couldn't  do 
any  differently  and  wrested  a  certain 
mournful  satisfaction  from  the  sadness 
of  surrender.  She  straightened  for  com- 
bat, throwing  off  the  drugging  effect 
of  those  false  satisfactions. 

"No,"  he  came  back  to  her  again,  "we 
have  to  play  the  game,  and  to  play  the 
game  we  have  to  keep  the  rules." 

As  he  said  it  she  knew  with  simple 
certitude  that  it  was  not  so.  She  knew 
it  for  the  great  human  error  and  weak- 
ness; knew  that  it  was  wickedly  waste- 
ful, fairly  unholy  in  its  blundering  tam- 
pering with  life.  It  took  life.  Was  that 
not  enough  to  say  against  it?  And  life 
was  more  valuable  than  anything  that 
would  shut  life  in — yes,  and  stronger 
than  built-up  things  that  held  it  in! 
Why,  she  owed  no  allegiance  to  an  order 
that  held  life  in  chains!  As  she  saw  the 
live  things  falling  back  in  this  man,  and 
the  things  of  custom  once  more  shutting 
down  around  him,  she  knew  her  own 
way  out.  In  the  fight  for  freeing  Mary 
Graham  she  would  free  herself. 

He  said  again,  putting  down  some- 
thing stubbornly  insurgent  in  himself, 
"You  see,  we  do  have  to  keep  the  rules." 

And  something  in  her,  freed  by  saying 
it,  leaped  up  and  made  her  strong  as  she 
looked  at  him  and  triumphantly  an- 
swered, "I  don't  have  to!" 


Australian  Bypaths 


A   DAY   OR   TWO   IN   THE  DRY-LANDS 

BY  NORMAN  DUNCAN 


IIDING  in  Christmas 
weather  from  the  arid 
gold-fields  country  of 
Western  Australia  east- 
ward to  the  edge  of  the 
habitable  places  and 
somewThat  beyond,  we 
came  at  last  to  a  rocky  elevation  from 
which  the  land  fell  sharply  to  a  flat  alka- 
line wilderness.  From  this  desolate  hill, 
for  the  moment  appalled  by  what  we 
saw,  we  looked  off  in  the  long,  dry  direc- 
tion of  the  center  of  the  continent — those 
many  of  miles  of  still  disreputable  coun- 
try, concerning  which  many  confusing 
tales  are  told,  these  having  variously 
to  do  with  grass-lands  and  stony  deserts, 
with  wide,  hopeless  wastes  of  scrub  and 
dust,  with  new  domains  of  pastoral  land, 
awaiting  settlement,  and  with  good- 
pastured  stock  -  routes  and  waterless 
tracts  of  sand  and  spinnifex.  Whatever 
quality  these  lands  may  at  last  turn  out 
to  have,  here,  at  any  rate,  four  hundred 
miles  from  the  fertile  coastal  reaches  and 
well  past  the  remotest  desert  mine,  was 
the  end  of  the  Western  Australian  world. 
There  were  no  habitations  beyond:  no 
path  led  on  to  the  east. 

From  the  crest  of  the  hill  we  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  very  sorriest  habitable 
Australian  country. 

We  faced  a  flaming  wilderness — a  red 
prospect,  splashed  with  the  green  of 
hardy  scrub,  its  distances,  where  a  sullen 
wind  was  stirring,  lying  in  a  haze  of  heat 
and  crimson  dust,  out  of  which  the  sky 
rose  pallid,  vaulting  overhead  high  and 
hot  and  deepest  blue.  Behind  us  the 
lean  trees — the  quick  and  the  dead — ran 
diminishing  to  the  north  and  there  van- 
ished, discouraged.  From  the  salt-land 
to  the  south  they  seemed  to  shrink 
aghast — to  huddle  back  upon  themselves 
and  deviate  over  the  horizon  in  fright 
and  haste.  There  was  a  vast  salt-pan 
below,  somewhat  forward  into  the  waste, 


stretching  an  ugly  length  farther  than 
sight  could  carry  from  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  with  straits,  bays,  bluff*  shores, 
meadows  of  white  slime — a  chain  of  dry, 
incrusted  lakes,  most  treacherous  to 
cross,  being  in  wide  spaces  coated  thin 
above  quagmires  of  salty  mud,  the  shores 
a  quicksand,  the  surface  foul  and  deadly 
(they  said)  with  a  low-lying,  poisonous 
vapor. 

All  this  was  of  no  very  grave  signifi- 
cance in  relation  to  the  whole. 

Presently  it  will  be  possible  to  land  at 
Fremantle  of  Western  Australia  and 
pass  by  railroad  to  Sydney  much  as  one 
might  go  from  San  Francisco  to  New 
York  by  way  of  New  Orleans.  But  there 
is  no  overland  trail  going  east  and  west 
through  the  central  dry-lands;  nor  ever 
was — nor  ever  can  be.  These  inimical 
lands,  which  now  glowed  red-hot  beyond 
us,  are  a  wide,  effectual  barrier,  stretch- 
ing from  the  middle  southern  shores, 
which  are  uninhabitable,  far  up  toward 
the  abundant  tropical  country  in  the 
north,  which  is  hardly  inhabited.  No 
mild  traveler  could  adventure  far  to 
the  east  of  where  we  stood  and  for 
long  endure  the  miseries  of  his  journey. 
An  expedition  of  proportions,  outfitted 
with  experienced  precaution  —  a  sea- 
soned leader  with  his  camels  and 
bushmen  and  black  fellows — could  not 
advance  through  the  center  from  Kal- 
goorlie  and  come  safely  to  the  nearest 
settlements  of  Sydney  Side  except  by 
grace  of  those  fortuitous  chances  which 
men  in  the  extremity  of  distress  call  the 
goodness  of  Providence. 

Returning  afoot  from  this  depressing 
prospect  to  a  new  point  of  departure,  we 
came  soon  to  a  shallow  gully  which  I 
fancied  we  had  not  penetrated  on  our 
devious  course  to  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
And  here  our  bushman — himself  regard- 
ing the  feat  as  a  meanest  commonplace 


210 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


of  the  bush — displayed  a  certain  aston- 
ishing aptitude.  Truly  he  was  a  very 
dirty  white  man,  a  monstrously  lazy 
fellow!  Yet  in  a  way  most  highly  to 
commend  him  he  was  given  to  industri- 
ous reflection  upon  all  the  faint  little 
traces  of  desert  life  he  encountered  as 
we  went  along.  These  absorbed  him,  oc- 
casionally, much  as  an  interval  of  deep 
thinking  sometimes  abstracts  a  scholar 
from  his  company.  He  would  interrupt 
himself  to  stare  at  some  small  space  of 
earth;  and  at  the  end  of  the  pause,  hav- 
ing achieved  an  inference  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, he  would  abruptly  resume  his  way 
and  conversation.  As  I  look  back  upon 
him — listening  again  to  his  slow  revela- 
tions— it  seems  to  me  that  he  coveted 
bush  lore  more  than  a  man  should  wish 
for  anything  and  seek  it  at  a  price. 

"We  did  not  come  this  way,"  I  main- 
tained. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  yawned. 

I  insisted  that  this  was  not  so. 

"Ah,  well,"  he  drawled,  eying  me 
with  amusement,  "I  see  the  tracks, 
right  enough." 

Now  the  ground  hereabouts  was  of 
red  earth  mixed  with  gravel  and  out- 
croppings  of  ironstone  which  nearly 
matched  its  color.  It  was  baked  so  hard 
that  the  press  of  a  heel  left  no  trace  that 
I  could  descry;  and  it  gripped  the  stones 
so  fast  that  to  be  dislodged  they  must  be 
kicked  out.  It  seemed  that  a  man  would 
leave  no  trace  whatsoever  of  his  passing. 
I  returned  a  little  upon  our  immediate 
tracks,  looking  for  some  sign  of  our  pas- 
sage of  this  path  which  I  knew  we  had 
followed;  but  though  the  search  was 
both  deliberate  and  diligent,  it  did  not 
reveal  to  me  the  slightest  indication  that 
the  ground  had  in  any  way  been  dis- 
turbed. Altogether  baffled — somewhat 
incredulous,  too — I  demanded  to  be 
shown  the  tracks  which  the  bushman 
had  observed.  And  he  pointed  forward 
a  matter  of  six  paces.  Yet  after  a  period 
of  painstaking  observation  I  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing;  nor  could  I  find  the 
sign  until  the  bushman  advanced  in  im- 
patient disgust  with  my  incapacity  and 
put  his  finger  on  it. 

It  was  a  dislodged  pebble,  no  larger 
than  a  peach-stone,  the  measure  of  its 
disturbance  in  its  mold  being  not  more, 
I  am  sure,  than  an  eighth  of  an  inch. 


"Why,  dod-blime  me,"  the  bushman 
exploded,  "I  could  follow  this  track  on 
a  gallop!" 

Off"  he  went,  on  a  sort  of  a  slow  run, 
to  make  good  this  gigantic  boast;  and 
make  it  good  he  did,  sure  enough — com- 
ing now  and  again  to  a  sharp  standstill 
to  indicate  the  whereabouts  of  an  over- 
turned stone  or  a  broken  twig  of  dead 
brushwood.  The  display  of  this  sharp, 
sure  sight,  swiftly  engaging  its  object, 
was  a  more  amazing  performance  of  the 
sort  than  I  had  ever  hoped  to  behold. 
Presently  he  stopped  to  declare  that  half 
a  dozen  paces  beyond  I  had  on  our  out- 
ward course  halted  to  make  a  cigarette. 
When  he  pointed  out  the  fresh-charred 
stub  of  a  match  it  was  of  course  obvious 
that  one  of  our  party  had  in  that  place 
begun  to  smoke.  But  why  I?  A  few 
flakes  of  my  peculiar  tobacco,  which  I 
had  not  observed — nor  had  I  observed 
the  stub  of  the  match — sufficiently  dis- 
closed my  identity.  It  was  evidence 
enough  to  hang  a  man.  Yet  it  was  not 
a  difficult  inference.  The  bushman's  feat 
was  this:  that  as  he  ran  he  had  caught 
sight  of  the  stub  of  the  match  and  the 
flakes  of  tobacco; 

After  that  he  paused  once  more  to  say 
that  I  had  at  that  point  "made  a  note 
in  the  little  book."  I  did  not  recall 
the  circumstance.  It  was,  at  any  rate, 
my  custom  to  make  jottings  secretly. 
And,  moreover,  I  had  not  walked  with 
the  bushman  to  the  crest  of  the  hill.  He 
had  been  far  ahead.  How,  then,  should 
he  be  aware  that  I  had  at  any  time 
"made  a  note  in  the  little  book  "?  My 
eyes  could  discover  no  indication  of  the 
fact.  But  it  was  no  great  mystery. 
Some  scattered  chips  of  cedar,  which  I 
had  failed  to  detect,  disclosed  that  a 
pencil  had  there  been  pointed.  That  the 
pencil  had  been  employed  was  an  inev- 
itable inference.  It  was  all  so  very 
obvious,  indeed,  that  the  presence  of  the 
cedar  chips  thereabouts  should  in  the 
first  instance  have  been  instantly  in- 
ferred from  the  bushman's  remarks.  In 
all  this,  it  will  be  noted,  the  inferences 
were  easily  drawn.  Yet  to  infer  imme- 
diately was  something  of  an  achieve- 
ment. And  to  pick  up  these  obscure 
indications  in  swiftly  passing  was  an 
extraordinary  triumph  of  observation. 

"These  'ere  tracks,"  said  the  bush- 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


211 


man,  as  we  resumed  our  way,  "is  all  my 
tracks." 

Among  the  evidences  this  man  was 
following,  the  mark  of  a  heel  or  toe 
would  have  been  eloquent — to  say  noth- 
ing of  its  prolixity — as  compared  with 
what  confronted  him.  But  there  were 
no  imprints.  There  was  nothing  what- 
soever except  here  and  there  a  dislodged 
stone  and  here  and  there  a  broken  twig. 
It  is  obvious  that  a  freshly  disturbed 
stone  indicates  surely  enough  the  track 
of  a  man  in  a  land  in  which  no  consid- 
erable beasts  can  be  imagined  to  have 
traversed.  That  it  should  disclose  the 
identity  of  the  passenger  is  quite  as  ob- 
viously out  of  the  question.  I  was  not 
aware  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  disturb- 
ing the  earth  in  a  peculiar  way.  Nor 
could  I  conceive  that  the  Artist  was 
accustomed  to  set  his  foot  on  a  twig  in  a 
fashion  to  betray  him  as  the  author  of 
the  fracture.  Nor  could  I  observe  that 
in  his  progress  the  bushman  himself  dis- 
lodged the  stones  in  a  manner  so  singular 
that  he  could  confidently  recognize  the 
work  of  his  toe  as  his  own. 

It  was  a  mystery  of  the  Australian 
bush.    I  made  haste  to  solve  it. 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  demanded. 

"I  made  'em!"  he  scoffed.  '''Think  I 
arent  got  sense  enough  to  know  my  own 
tracks  ?" 

In  a  baffled  attempt  to  reach  the 
center  of  the  continent,  one  of  the  first 
explorers,  being  forced  long  ago  to  sum- 
mer in  this  selfsame  latitude — much  as 
an  Arctic  explorer  winters  on  his  ground 
— found  far  to  the  east  of  where  we  jour- 
neyed a  shade  temperature  of  13 2°, 
which  rose  in  the  sun  to  1570.  The 
mean  temperature  for  January,  in  that 
situation  and  exceptional  season,  was 
1040  in  the  shade.  "The  ground  was 
thoroughly  heated  to  a  depth  of  three 
or  four  feet,"  he  records;  "and  the  tre- 
mendous heat  had  parched  all  vegeta- 
tion. Under  its  effects  every  screw  in 
our  boxes  had  been  drawn.  Horn  han- 
dles and  combs  were  split  into  fine 
laminae.  The  lead  dropped  out  of  our 
pencils.  Our  hair,  as  well  as  the  sheep's 
wool,  ceased  to  grow,  and  our  nails  be- 
came brittle  as  glass.  The  flour  lost 
more  than  eight  per  cent,  of  its  original 
weight.    We  were  obliged  to  bury  our 


wax  candles.  We  found  it  difficult  to 
write  or  draw,  so  rapidly  did  the  fluid 
dry  in  our  pens  and  brushes." 

Truly  a  shriveled  and  terrible  world 
to  journey  through! 

It  was  now  Christmas  weather.  We 
were  not  much  more  than  a  fortnight 
into  January.  It  was,  therefore,  hot  and 
dry.  The  land  was  at  its  worst.  With  a 
previous  experience  on  the  gold-fields  as 
a  basis  of  approximation  we  made  sure 
that  the  temperature  was  reaching  for 
1200  in  the  shade  and  would  trium- 
phantly achieve  it  before  the  day  was 
out.  Yet  life  was  far  better  than  toler- 
able. Though  the  sun  blistered — blis- 
tered quick  and  sure  and  painfully  as  a 
mustard-plaster — it  did  not  strike  any 
traveler  down.  Coming  out  through  the 
Indian  Ocean,  we  had  been  told  of  a 
young  gentleman  who  had  sacrificed  his 
life  in  a  supererogation  of  gallantry 
by  raising  his  helmet  in  farewell  to  a 
lady  at  the  wharves  of  Colombo.  In  the 
humid  tropics  fear  of  the  sun  is  instinc- 
tive. But  here  in  this  dry  open  the  sun 
showed  no  grave  menace.  And  we  were 
not  oppressed.  That  day  we  drew 
breath  with  ease  and  satisfaction.  If 
we  were  not  excessively  exhilarated  by 
the  quality  of  the  weather,  we  were  at 
least  greatly  amused. 

All  at  once  a  diminutive  whirlwind 
took  life  under  our  very  feet  and  went 
swishing  and  swirling  to  the  east. 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  Artist, 
astounded. 

It  might  have  been  a  partridge  whir- 
ring to  new  cover. 

"A  little  willy-willy,"  said  the  bush- 
man. 

It  was  a  singular  phenomenon.  Its 
force  and  activity  were  amazing;  and 
the  noise  it  made — the  swish  and  hum 
and  crackle  of  it — astonished  us  no  less. 
We  watched  its  erratic  course.  Its  out- 
line was  definite.  Its  path  no  man  could 
guess.  And  it  moved  swiftly,  only  occa- 
sionally stopping  in  indecision  to  spin 
like  a  top.  It  darted,  it  swerved,  it 
circled.  Had  it  returned  upon  its  tracks 
— and  there  was  no  certainty  that  it 
would  not  immediately  do  so — we  should 
have  taken  to  our  heels!  It  was  so  vis- 
ible and  small  that,  having  short  warning, 
we  might  have  leaped  aside  and  escaped. 
And  a  man  would  earnestly  desire  to 


212 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


elude  it.  It  had  a  fearsome  violence;  it 
caught  up  the  twigs,  it  scattered  the 
pebbles,  it  tore  at  the  scrub,  it  gathered 
a  cloud  of  dust.  When  at  last  it  van- 
ished, a  thick,  red  mist,  high  in  the  air, 
we  laughed  heartily  at  this  comical  little 
six-foot  cyclone,  as  we  were  then  dis- 
posed to  regard  it. 

Traveling  subsequently  in  the  midst 
of  a  host  of  these  small  winds,  we  had  no 
laughter  left. 

Precisely  speaking,  the  willy-willies 
are  those  destructive  cyclones  which 
originate  in  the  ocean  to  the  north  of  the 
continent  and,  blowing  to  the  south- 
west, fall  heavily  on  the  northerly  West- 
ern Australian  coast  from  December  to 
March.  Off  Ninety-Mile  Beach,  near 
Broome,  the  pearl-fishers  call  them 
Cock-eyed  Bobs.  Five  years  ago  two 
visitations  of  the  willy-willies  sent  sixty 
luggers  to  the  bottom  and  accounted  for 
the  disappearance  of  three  hundred  men 
and  more.  It  is  now  the  custom  of  the 
pearlers  to  lie  discreetly  in  harbor  during 
the  willy-willy  season.  If,  however,  the 
great  willy-willy,  instead  of  following  the 
coast-line  in  a  southerly  direction,  devi- 
ates to  the  east,  as  sometimes  happens, 
it  crosses  the  continent  to  the  Great 
Australian  Bight,  on  the  south  coast,  and 
its  course  is  marked  by  torrential  rains. 
A  fall  of  as  much  as  twenty-nine  and 
one-half  inches  has  been  recorded.  All 
the  dry-lands — where,  too,  we  traveled — 
are  in  this  way  sometimes  refreshed. 

Retreating  westward,  we  were  pres- 
ently confronted  from  the  trunk  of  a 
gnarled  dead  tree  by  a  singular  wayside 
sign-board.  It  announced  the  proxim- 
ity of  a  public-house,  three  miles  dis- 
tant into  the  bush,  and  bade  all  wise 
travelers  leave  the  road  and  seek  en- 
tertainment for  themselves  and  beasts 
in  that  direction,  to  live  and  let  live 
being  the  true  policy  of  the  establish- 
ment. So  quaint  was  the  flavor  of 
this,  and  so  astonishingly  out  of  the 
way  was  the  situation  of  the  inn,  that 
we  were  at  once  enlisted  to  visit  it. 
Having  in  lively  expectation  accom- 
plished these  slow  miles,  we  were  dashed 
to  find  the  tavern-keeper  absconded  and 
his  house  closed  by  the  sheriff  and  fallen 
into  ghostly  disrepair.  We  were  deeply 
chagrined,  indeed;  for  here  was  a  rarely 


mysterious  tavern,  drearily  alone  and 
remote  in  this  sand  and  scrub — no  half- 
way house,  but  the  last  dwelling  of  these 
parts;  and  we  wondered  what  manner  of 
rascal  had  kept  the  place,  what  peculiar 
villainy  he  had  practised,  what  strange 
variety  of  patronage  he  had  drawn  from 
the  waste.  No  highwaymen  were  riding 
the  country — nor  had  ever  ridden  the 
country — to  stimulate  the  imagination 
concerning  this  forsaken  inn.  Its  se- 
crets were  not  those  of  a  romantic 
rascality — of  nothing  but  the  sordid  vil- 
lainy of  foully  robbing  drunken  travelers 
of  their  gold.  Vile  traps  these  are — 
these  lonely  inns  of  the  remote  Austra- 
lian back-blocks. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  trail  we  en- 
countered a  hairy,  dusty,  ragged  fellow, 
pedaling  a  bicycle  through  the  scrub,  a 
swag  on  his  back.  He  was  all  in  a  lather 
with  the  labor  of  his  haste.  Whether  he 
was  miner,  prospector,  cattle-man,  or 
sundowner  (tramp),  there  was  no  telling. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  riding  for  liquor,  as 
he  was  quite  frank  to  say,  and  fast  going 
mad  for  it.  It  was  "a  case  of  the  dry 
horrors"  with  him  (said  he),  and  he  was 
vastly  disgruntled  with  our  news  that 
the  tavern  was  closed  up.  Perking  up, 
however,  in  our  company,  he  seemed  in 
no  bad  way,  after  all,  and  presently  told 
us,  as  we  went  along,  that  some  days 
before,  traveling  the  edge  of  the  "nigger 
country"  to  the  north,  he  had  fallen  in 
with  a  roving  band  of  gins  (black  women) 
with  whom  he  had  enjoyed  an  astonish- 
ment which  still  kept  him  laughing. 
What  these  savage  women  were  about, 
wandering  the  country  without  men, 
far  from  their  tribe,  he  could  not  dis- 
cover; but  as  they  were  daubed  with 
clay  he  concluded  that  they  were  mourn- 
ing some  death.  What  amused  him  was 
this:  that  as  he  rode  near  he  was,  to  his 
dumfounded  amazement,  addressed  in 
lackadaisical  English  by  a  young  woman 
(he  vowed)  who  was  not  only  the  dirti- 
est, but  quite  the  nudest  and  most  primi- 
tively unconcerned  of  all  the  chocolate 

mob. 

"Really,"  she  drawled,  "don't  you 
find  the  weather  rawther  oppressive?" 

At  this  the  swagman  blasphemed  his 
surprise. 

"If  you  were  to  address  me  in  French," 
said  the  young  woman,  with  sweeping 


On  the  Edge  of  the  Dry-lands 


dignity,  "I  should  have  no  difficulty  in 
comprehending  you." 

It  turned  out  that  this  aboriginal 
maiden  had,  according  to  her  story,  been 
reared  from  childhood  by  a  lady  of  Ade- 
laide; that  she  had  reverted  to  the  bush 
and  was  then  with  her  tribe.  Whether 
for  good  and  all  she  did  not  know;  she 
might  return  to  the  lady  some  day — to 
play  the  piano.  And  she  tittered  like  a 
school-girl  (said  the  swagman);  and  she 

Vol.  CXXVIII.— No.  764.-27 


chaffed  and  giggled  and  chattered  in  the 
most  flirtatious  manner  of  the  settle- 
ments, not  in  the  least  perturbed,  more- 
over, being  now  in  the  bush,  by  the 
shocking  fact  that  she  was  in  the  garb 
of  the  bush.  Now  this  was  the  swag- 
man's  tale.  It  is  not  mine.  But  there  is 
no  great  reason  to  doubt  it.  It  seems 
that  aborigines  of  both  sexes,  employed 
in  the  towns — the  employment  of  abo- 
riginal women  is  rigorously  restricted  by 


214 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


the  government — must  periodically  re- 
turn to  the  bush.   They  remain  content 
for  a  time,  sufficient  servants,  in  some 
cases,  if  lazy.    And  then  the  inevitable 
interval:    off  they   scamper,  without 
warning,  and  they  strip  themselves  of 
the  last  clogging  connection  with  civili- 
zation, and  cache 
their  garments 
against  the  time 
of  return,  and 
run  wild  to  their  -  5 

satisfaction,  re- 
turning, by  and        1  S 
by,  as  if  they  had 
not  been  absent 
at  all.  Every- 
where on  the 
edge  of  the  wild 
lands   tales  are 
told  like  the  swagman's  story 
of  the  tittering  ward  of  the 
good  lady  of  Adelaide — told 
with  scorn  of  this  philanthropic 
endeavor. 

"Just  beasts,"  said  the 
swagman. 

And  he  abandoned  our  slow 
course,  being  in  haste,  as  he 
confessed,  to  ease  his  pitiable 
state  in  the  first  public-house 
he  could  manage  to  discover. 

One  day  we  rode  into  a  wide 
reach  of  primeval  bush  which 
not  even  the  wretched  gath- 
erers of  sandlewood  had 
combed  for  the  dead  branches  of  their 
meager  living.  From  a  rise  of  the  land, 
slowly  down  and  far  away,  it  was  like  a 
moist  jungle,  a  low,  impenetrable  tangle; 
but  it  thinned,  as  we  entered,  into  an 
open  growth  of  slender,  delicately  lovely 
and  diminutive  trees,  springing  in  blithe 
health  from  the  sandy  earth,  many  of 
them  peculiar  to  the  Australian  world, 
like  the  kangaroo — she-oaks  (said  the 
bushman)  and  gimlet-trees,  salmon  gum, 
mulga,  tea-trees,  thorny  spinnifex,  and 
succulent  sage-bush.  A  stretch  of  dry, 
blazing  days,  intolerable  to  an  American 
forest,  had  not  in  the  least  diminished 
the  spirit  of  this  hardy  bush.  Not  a  leaf 
was  wilted,  that  we  could  see,  nor  did 
any  branch  droop.  These  pretty  mid- 
gets were  as  fresh  and  clean  and  fat  with 
their  small  nourishment  as  from  the 


rain  of  an  abundant  yesterday.  We  saw 
no  ailing  tree,  but  only  the  green  shades 
of  good  health — a  curious  variety  of 
color,  against  the  red  and  blue  of  the 
world,  deepening  from  a  tinge  of  gray 
to  the  darkest  shade  of  green.  Yet  there 
were  many  gaunt  dead,  mingled  with  the 
quick,  which  seemed  to 
have  died  of  sheer  old 
age:  burly,  gnarled 
dwarfs,  bleached  white, 
so  old  that  we  ached  to 
contemplate  their 
length  of  days,  striv- 
ing in  this  mean  desert 
land. 

In  the  thin  shade  of  a 
salmon  gum  we  rested 
for  an  hour  with  a  bush- 
man  who  had  a  hut  in 
the  scrub  on  the  edge  of 
the  salt-lands  and  was 
then  trudging  to  a  bro- 
ken mining-town  of  the 
neighborhood  for  a  sack 
of  flour.  He  lived  with 
the  blacks  (said  he) — a 
condition  so  degraded 
in  Australia  that  few 
men  challenge  its  ob- 
loquy— and  was  even 
married  with  them  ac- 
cording to  their  customs 
and  his  own.  A  red- 
bearded,  vacant  fellow 
in  filthy  tweed :  he  was 
a  disgusting  creature, 
without  sensibility,  thus  fallen  too 
low  for  pity.  He  was  outcast.  What 
future  he  had  lay  with  the  bestial  sav- 
ages in  the  inferno  of  sun  and  sand 
beyond  the  frontier.  And  these  sav- 
age brothers  —  there  had  been  some 
bloody  heathen  ceremony  of  initia- 
tion to  tribe  and  family — he  now  cursed 
for  mistrusting  him.  Brothers?  Ha,  ha! 
Brothers — were  they?  No  fear!  They 
would  tell  a  white  man  precious  little 
(he  sneered)  of  their  mysteries.  How 
much  would  a  black  fellow  tell  a  white 
man  about  magic?  Huh?  Haw,  haw! 
And  how  about  message-sticks?  How 
much  would  a  black  fellow  tell  a  white 
man  about  message-sticks?  They'd  lie 
— oh  yes,  they'd  lie  !  And  from  all  this 
we  made  out  that  our  outcast  was  newly 
returned  from  a  protracted  visitation 


A  Bushman 


Drawn  by  George  Harding 


A   CAMP    IN   THE  DESERT 


A  roving  Band  of  Gins 


with  his  savages  and  was  in  the  worst 
of  humor  with  his  welcome. 

"Out  back,"  he  complained,  sullenly, 
indicating  the  desolation  to  the  east  with 
a  petulant  sweep,  "they  got  everything 
fixed." 

"Who?" 

"'Who?'"  he  echoed.  "Why,  the 
dashed  old  men!" 

"Specifically  what?" 

"It's  all  fixed  to  keep  the  old  men 
comfortable,"  said  he.  "What's  right 
and  what's  wrong,  I  mean.  It's  mostly 
religion — magic.  I  reckon  their  religion 
was  made  by  old  men.  If  I  was  an  old 
man  I'd  make  one  just  like  it  if  I  could. 
Don't  you  reckon  that  what's  right  and 
what's  wrong  depends  on  who  has  the 
power  to  say  so?   I  do.    I'm  a  Socialist. 

"  Take  grub.  Grub's  a  good  example. 
Grub's  scarce  with  the  black  fellows, 
isn't  it?  Well,  the  old  men  get  the  best 
of  the  grub.  That's  law — that's  religion. 


It's  one  of  the  Ten  Commandments.  A 
young  fellow  can't  eat  a  nice  big  snake. 
It  wouldn't  be  religious.  He's  got  to 
take  that  snake  to  his  father-in-law. 
Why?  Because  a  snake's  good.  And 
there's  a  whole  lot  of  other  good  things 
that  a  young  fellow  can't  eat.  He  can't 
eat  anything  at  all  that's  nourishing  and 
real  fat  and  juicy.  He  can't  eat  a  lizard. 
If  he  ate  a  lizard  it  would  be  just  the 
same  as  crime,  and  that's  the  same 
as  sin,  isn't  it?  If  they  didn't  catch 
him?  Oh,  they've  got  that  fixed !  They 
teach  the  little  shavers  that  if  they 
eat  lizards  they'll  swell  up  and  bust. 
And  it  works,  too  —  just  about  as 
well  as  the  same  sort  of  thing  works 
with  us. 

"  You  see,  they've  got  their  own  no- 
tions of  right  and  wrong.  But  their  no- 
tions of  right  and  wrong  are  not  the  same 
as  our  notions  of  right  and  wrong.  And 
that's  queer.   Why  shouldn't  they  be?" 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


217 


There  was  an  interval  through  which 
the  outcast  bushman  heavily  pondered. 

"I  wonder  what  is  right,"  said  he, 
perplexed,  "and  what  is  wrong." 

We  left  him  in  the  thin  shade  of  the 
salmon  gum — doubtless  continuing  to 
contemplate  this  grave  problem.  And 
we  inferred  that  he  had  been  piously 
reared. 

In  the  heat  of  mid-afternoon  we  came 
to  a  broken  mining-town.  In  its  brief 
day  of  promise  it  had  made  a  great 
noise  in  the  Western  Australian  world. 
They  had  planned  it  large,  with  quick, 
leaping  enthusiasm,  in  the  Western  Aus- 
tralian way;  and  though  it  was  here  set 
far  back  into  the  desert,  they  would 
surely  have  made  it  large,  with  Austra- 
lian vigor  and  determination  to  thrive 
big  and  powerful,  had  the  earth  yielded 
a  good  measure  of  its  first  encourage- 
ment. Its  one  street,  up  the  broiling, 
deserted  vista  of  which  the  bitter  red 
dust  was  blowing,  was  wide  enough  for 
the  traffic  of  any  metropolis;  and  the 
disintegrating  skeleton  of  a  magnificent 
boulevard,  conceived  with  high  courage 
in  these  dry-lands,  implied  a  splendid 
vision  of  that  lovely  maturity  to  which 
the  town  had  never  attained.  The  town 
had  lived  fast  and  failed.  It  was  now  as 
pitiable  as  the  wreck  of  any  aspiration — 
as  any  young  promise  which  has  broken 
in  the  test  and  at  last  got  past  the  time 
when  faith  can  endure  to  contemplate 
it.  The  people  had  vanished,  taking 
their  habitations  with  them,  in  the  gold- 
fields'  manner,  to  new  fields  of  promise. 
They  had  not  left  much  to  mark  the  site 
of  their  brave  ambition.  A  hot,  listless 
group  of  corrugated -iron  dwellings  re- 
mained— a  public-house,  too,  and  a  spick- 
and-span  police-station  and  a  sad  little 
graveyard. 

A  fat  landlady,  performing  the  office 
of  barmaid,  resolutely  interrupted  our 
way  to  the  public  bar  and  bade  us  into 
the  parlor,  which  was  better  suited  (she 
said)  to  our  quality.  In  this  her  concern 
was  most  anxious.  It  was  apparent  from 
her  air  of  indulgent  consideration  that, 
perceiving  us  to  be  strangers,  she  had, 
with  great  good  nature,  made  haste  to 
rescue  us  from  a  breach  of  gentle  be- 
havior. 

It   seems  that,  remote  as  this  far 


country  is  from  the  usages  of  Home,  one 
is  still  expected  to  choose  one's  pot- 
house company  with  self-respect  and 
decent  precision.  And  a  variety  of  op- 
portunity is  frequently  afforded — bars, 
outer,  middle,  inner,  and  parlor.  No 
thirsty  man  need  stray  from  his  estab- 
lished station.  Should  he  drop  into  com- 
pany beneath  him,  he  may  blame  him- 
self; and  should  he  intrude  among  his 
betters,  let  him  take  the  scowling  conse- 
quences! The  parlor  is,  of  course,  the 
resort  of  unquestioned  gentility;  but 
precisely  what  distinctions  admit  a  pa- 
tron to  the  qualified  respectability  of  the 
inner  bar,  and  what  lack  of  quality 
banishes  him  to  the  outer,  I  could  not 
by  any  means  make  out.  The  moral  of 
it  all,  though  it  be  derived  from  nothing 
better  than  a  pot-house  arrangement  and 
the  solicitude  of  a  mining-town  landlady, 
is  broad:  the 
Australians 
still  live  as- 
tonishingly 
close  to  the 
caste  tradi- 
tions of  Home. 

Our  land- 
lady was  a 
rippling,  ge- 


Native  Types 


They  would  tell  a  White  Man  precious  little  oh  their  Mysteries 


nial  body,  flushed  and  smiling  with  inti- 
mate and  honest  hospitality,  and  did 
what  she  could  to  refresh  us  according  to 
our  temperate  humor.  This  was  not 
much.  She  had  no  ice;  no  ice  could  sur- 
vive the  red-hot  journey  to  that  town;  and 
as  for  the  beverages  of  discretion — she 
laughed  long  to  shame  us  from  such  cal- 
low and  injurious  habits.  Her  parlor  was 
darkened  —  a  grateful  relief  from  the 
blistering  agony  of  the  white  light 
of  day;  and  it  was  happily  separat- 
ed from  the  public  room  by  nothing 
more  than  a  stretch  of  bar  and  the 
small  difference  between  a  sixpence 
and  shilling  per  glass  of  tipple,  drawn 
from  the  same  cask.  Here  we  fell  in 
amiable  conversation  with  a  casual 
miner  who  had  dropped  in  from  some 
desperate  little  show  (mine)  of  his  for 
the  refreshment  of  a  glass  of  lukewarm 


ale.  He  was  not  a  parlor  patron;  in  ap- 
pearance not  at  all  of  parlor  quality, 
being  frowsy,  plastered  and  speckled 
with  dried  mud,  a  little  the  worse  of  life. 
From  the  public  room  he  talked  across 
to  the  shadows  where  we  sat  in  rather 
embarrassed  superiority,  not  used  to 
these  accepted  distinctions;  and  he  ran 
on  in  a  free,  lively  fashion,  his  accent 
and  vernacular  more  nearly  resembling 
those  of  an  Englishman,  it  seemed,  than 
they  approached  the  cockney  speech  of 
the  Australian  back-blocks. 

"It  is  remarkable,"  he  agreed  at  last. 
"I  can't  account  for  it." 

Our  mystification  had  to  do  with  the 
men  who  perish  of  thirst.  They  strip 
themselves,  poor  wretches,  in  their  des- 
perate wanderings;  and  stripped  to  the 
skin  the  trackers  find  them,  stark 
naked,  their  hands  bloody  with  digging, 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


219 


their   eyes   wide   open  and 
white,  their  tongues  swollen 
clean   out  of  their  mouths. 
Nor   are   these  deaths  occa- 
sional.    They    are  frequent. 
It  is  a  dry  land — all  these  wil- 
derness miles.     No  rivers  wa- 
ter it.    There  are  no  oases.  A 
rainfall  vanishes  like* an  illu- 
sion.    Travelers  beyond  the 
tanks  venture  recklessly.  They 
must  chance  the  rainfall;  and 
failing   the    rare    rains  the}7 
must  find  water  in  soaks  and 
gnamma-holes,   or  perish  in 
their  tracks,  the  soak  being 
a  basin  scooped  in  the  sand 
at  the  base  of  a  granite  rock, 
and  the  gnamma-hole  a  great 
cavity  in   the   granite  from 
which  the  last  rain  has  not  evaporated. 
And  all  the  water  is  illusive:  it  fails  or 
changes  place — being  here  and  there,  or 
not  at  all,  as  the  seasons  run.    A  punc- 
tured water-bag  is  sentence  of  death. 
Many  a  man,  lost  alone,  has  died  alone, 
cursing  a  thorn:    convicts  of  the  old 
days,  escaping  without  hope  over  the 
desert  to  the  settlements  of  South  Aus- 
tralia, and  prospectors  of  the  days  of  the 
rush,  pushing  the  search  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  caution.     Travelers  re- 
turning from  the  deserts — the  prospect- 
ors of  these  better-informed  days — cas- 
ually report  the  skeletons. 

It  is  all  true  of  the  country  we  rode — 
these  worst  Australian  lands. 

"A  chap  got  lost  out  here  in  the  early 
days,"*  the  miner  went  on.    "Came  out 


Pedaling  a  Bicycle  through  the  Scrub 


from  home,  you  know,  and  struck  an 
everlasting  fortune  at  Kalgoorlie.  Wild 
times,  those  days.  My  word!  I  saw  the 
'  Hand-to  -Mouth '  squandered.  They 
sold  that  show  to  an  English  syndicate  for 
£30,000  and  dissipated  every  bally  shil- 
ling before  they  quit.  Everything  free  to 
everybody;  and  every  barmaid  a  harpy 
and  every  publican  a  leech.  It  didn't 
take  long.  And  the  'Australia/  They 
were  so  hot  to  get  rid  of  that  mine  that 
they  paid  £1,200  for  cablegrams — ex- 
perts' reports  and  all  that — before  the 
deal  was  closed  in  London;  and  there 
wasn't  anything  too  good  for  the  gold- 
fields  while  the  £24,000  held  out.  But 
what  should  this  chap  I'm  telling  you 
about  do  but  fall  in  love  with  a  musical 
barmaid  and  squander  a  fortune  on  her. 


A  Tragedy  of  the  Desert 


Drawn  by  George  Harding 

WE    CAME   TO   A    BROKEN    MINING   TOWN   THAT   HAD    LIVED   FAST   AND  FAILED 


AUSTRALIAN  BYPATHS 


221 


Well,  what  should  she  do,  when  he'd 
knocked  down  his  cash,  but  raise  the 
fantans  and  throw  him  over.  And  back 
he  came  to  the  gold-fields  to  get  an- 
other fortune.  No  chance.  What  should 
he  do  then  but  take  to  the  bush. 
Prospecting,  you  see.  We  waited  a  de- 
cent bit  and  tracked  him.  First  thing 
they  do,  when  they  go  mad,  you  know, 
is  take  off  their  boots.  But  we  couldn't 
find  this  chap's  boots.  We  found  his 
hat,  his  jacket,  trousers,  shirt.  When 
we  found  him  he  was  stripped — feet 
all  cut  to  shreds  and  his  boots  in  his 
hand." 
"Dead?" 

"No  fear.  But  there  was  an  inch  of 
big  black  tongue  sticking  out  of  his 
mouth,  poor  old  chap!" 

It  is  a  land  no  man  should  penetrate 
distantly  and  alone  unless  he  has  mas- 
tered the  last  subtleties  of  Australian 
bushcraft.  A  Canadian  woodsman 
would  find  nothing  in  his  experience  to 
enlighten  him.  A  North  American 
Indian  would  perish  of  ignorance.  A 
Bedouin  of  the  sandy  Arabian  deserts 
would  in  any  dire  extremity  die  helpless. 
Australian  bushcraft  is  a  craft  peculiar 
to  the  Australian  bush.  It  concerns 
itself  less  with  killing  the  crawling  desert 
life  for  food — and  schooling  a  disgusted 
stomach  to  entertain  it — than  with 
divining  the  whereabouts  of  water  in  a 
land  which  is  to  the  alien  vision  as  dry 
as  a  brick  in  the  sun.  A  black  tracker, 
said  our  bushman,  once  turned  in  con- 
tempt from  the  corpse  of  a  man  who  had 
died  of  thirst.  He  had  no  pity;  he  spat 
his  abhorrence  of  the  stupidity  of  this 
dead  wretch.  The  man  had  died  within 
arm's-length  of  water — the  moist  roots 
of  some  small  desert  tree.  In  the  deserts 
to  the  northeast  of  us,  mid-continent, 
when  sun  and  dry  winds  suck  the  moist- 
ure from  deep  in  the  ground  and  all  the 
world  runs  dry — the  soaks  and  gnamma- 
holes  and  most  secret  crevices  of  the 
trees  and  rocks  —  the  aborigines  draw 
water  from  these  roots  by  cutting  them 
into  short  lengths  and  letting  them  drain, 
drop  by  drop,  into  a  wooden  bowl.  But 
the  worst  may  come  to  the  worst — there 
may  be  no  "water  trees,"  or  the  roots 
may  shrivel  and  dry  up. 

"What  then?" 

Vol.  CXXVIII— No.  764.-28 


"Ah,  well,"  said  the  bushman,  "they 
do  with  what  they  have." 

"What  have  they?" 

"Ah,  well,  they  lick  the  dew  from  the 
leaves  and  grass." 

Failing  the  rains,  failing  soaks  and 
gnamma-holes,  failing  roots  and  the 
morning's  dew,  the  aborigine  of  the  cen- 
tral dry-lands  has  a  last  occasional  source 
of  supply.  It  indicates  the  desperate 
hardship  of  his  life  and  discloses  the 
quality  of  his  cunning.  It  is  related  by 
a  celebrated  Australian  traveler  and  an- 
thropologist, Baldwin  Spencer,  that, hav- 
ing come  in  a  dry  season  to  a  dry  clay- 
pan  bordered  with  withered  shrubs,  his 
company  was  amazed  by  an  exhibition 
of  aboriginal  craft  which  seems  to  have 
been  beyond  compare  in  any  savage 
land.  There  was  no  water,  there  even 
was  no  moisture,  within  miles;  and  the 
clay  was  baked  so  hard  that  to  be  pene- 
trated at  all  it  must  be  broken  with  a 
hatchet.  A  keen  native  guide  presently 
discerned  little  tracks  on  the  ground — 
faintest  indications  of  life,  apparently, 
like  obscure  fossil  traces — and,  having 
hacked  into  the  clay  to  the  depth  of  a 
foot,  unearthed  "a  spherical  little  cham- 
ber, about  three  inches  in  diameter,  in 
which  lay  a  dirty  yellow  frog."  It  was 
a  water-holding  frog;  and  it  was  dis- 
tended with  its  supply — a  store  suffi- 
cient, perhaps,  to  enable  it  to  survive  a 
drought  of  a  year  and  a  half.  And  the 
water  (says  the  anthropologist)  was 
quite  pure  and  fresh.  If  they  are 
squeezed,  these  frogs  may  yield  a  saving 
draught  to  lost  and  perishing  travelers. 

"Find  a  nigger,"  said  our  bushman, 
when,  as  we  rode,  we  told  him  this  tale, 
"and  you'll  get  water." 

"What  if  the  aborigine  is  obdu- 
rate?" 

"Ah,  well,  if  the  nigger  wont  tell,"  the 
bushman  explained,  "you  rope  him  by 
the  neck  to  your  saddle.  When  he  gets 
thirsty  he'll  go  to  water  right  enough!" 

In  the  back-blocks  of  central  Western 
Australia,  to  the  east  of  the  few  discour- 
aged little  government  tanks  of  the  gold- 
fields  country,  and,  indeed,  in  the  dry- 
lands to  the  north  and  south  of  this, 
there  are  no  fixed,  fresh  wells,  generally 
dependable,  as  in  the  African  and  Ara- 
bian deserts;    and  consequently  there 


222 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


are  no  determined  routes  of  travel,  like 
the  caravan  routes  of  the  Sahara — no 
main-traveled  roads  from  point  to  point. 
Nor  is  there  any  traveling  back  and 
forth.  It  is  a  wilderness.  It  would,  how- 
ever, be  a  rash  traveler  who  dared  gen- 
eralize concerning  so  vast  and  varied  a 
domain — a  million  square  miles.  The 
dry-lands  which  we  rode  in  a  midsummer 
drought  indicate  nothing  at  all  of  the 
quality  of  the  tropical  north;  nor  do 
they  any  more  hint  at  the  forests  and 
hills  and  green  farms  of  the  southwest 
than  the  Arizona  wastes  imply  the  rich 
corn-lands  of  Kansas.  All  the  while,  all 
Australia  over,  now  more  confidently 
than  ever  before,  the  settlements  are 
pushing  in  from  the  coast,  amazed  to  dis- 
cover beneficent  areas  where  deserts 
were  expected;  pushing  up  from  South 
Australia,  down  from  the  Northern  Ter- 
ritory, doughtily  westward  from  Queens- 
land and  New  South  Wales;  but  here  in 
this  parched,  blazing  red  country,  baf- 
fled by  the  perilous  and  dry  monotony 
of  the  land,  they  seem  long  ago  to  have 
stopped,  dismayed,  and  never  to  have 
taken  heart  again. 

It  is  a  vacant  land — the  whole  raw, 
wide  state.  Within  a  radius  of  fifteen 
miles  from  the  capital  city  of  Perth,  in 
the  fertile  and  established  southwestern 
country,  the  population  exceeds  one 
hundred  thousand,  and  the  population 
of  the  East  Coolgardie  gold-fields,  of 
which  the  good  city  of  Kalgoorlie  is  the 
center,  approaches  one  hundred  thou- 
sand; so  that  what  remains  of  the  total 
population  of  three  hundred  thousand, 
subtracting  the  population  of  the  old 
town  of  Albany  on  the  south  coast  and 
the  population  of  the  thriving  Geraldton 
district  on  the  middle  west  coast — 
roughly,  a  remainder  of  eighty-five  thou- 
sand— peoples  what  is  left  of  the  million 
square  miles  of  territory.  The  little 
towns  are  scattered  remotely.  Wynd- 
ham,  in  the  north,  for  example,  with  a 
population  of  one  hundred  and  five,  two 
thousand  miles  away,  as  one  travels  by 
camel  and  coach  and  sea;  and  Hall's 
Creek,  where  sixty-three  whites  are  ex- 
iled in  twenty-five  hundred  miles  of  dis- 
tance and  many  weeks  of  time,  happily 
and  prosperously,  no  doubt,  and  in  the 


good  health  of  the  open.  Consequently 
land  is  cheap  to  the  settler,  cheap  and 
wide.  In  the  Kimberly  and  northwest 
divisions  pastoral  leases  may  be  had  of 
the  government  in  blocks  of  not  less  than 
twenty  thousand  acres  at  a  rental  of  ten 
shillings  a  thousand  acres  a  year;  and 
in  the  central  division,  too,  where  we 
rode. 

"What's  the  cheapest  land  in  the 
state?"  we  inquired  of  an  old  prospector. 

"Three  shillings,"  said  he,  "down  in 
Eucla." 

|'An  acre?" 

"O  Lord,  no!    A  thousand  acres!" 
"Any  good  ?" 

"Not  to  me,"  he  laughed.  "I'm  a 
miner." 

We  came  with  regret  to  the  last  amaz- 
ing day  of  this  midsummer  dry-lands 
riding.  It  was  a  waste  place — wide, 
parched,  empty — yet  it  charmed  us,  with 
its  color  and  isolation  and  many  singu- 
lar aspects,  as  any  desert  will,  and  we 
wished  we  were  riding  east  into  the  midst 
of  it,  where  the  savage  life  of  the  land  is, 
rather  than  turning  tamely  to  the  dead 
town  of  Coolgardie.  It  was  hot.  It  was 
still.  Yet  a  hot  wind  blew  in  rare,  bewil- 
dering gusts.  The  touch  of  dust  burned 
like  sparks  of  fire.  We  traveled  an  oven 
of  the  world.  There  was  a  coppery  haze, 
as  though  the  impalpable  particles  of  the 
air  were  incandescent  and  visible;  and 
sky  and  scrub  and  earth  were  all  aglow — 
molten  blue  and  green  and  red.  In  con- 
tact with  the  hot  sand  the  air  went  mad. 
It  seemed  to  be  streaked  and  honey- 
combed. We  fancied  that  we  rode  from 
areas  of  relief  into  streaming  currents 
and  still  pockets  of  heat.  Those  extraor- 
dinary atmospheric  conditions  which 
break  in  cyclones  were  here  operating 
multitudinously  and  in  miniature  to  raise 
a  host  of  little  whirlwinds.  It  was  an 
astounding  spectacle,  that  blazing  red 
expanse  and  its  thousand  little  dusty 
tempests  circling  and  darting  far  and 
near.  They  went  whirling  past,  envel- 
oping us,  screaming  under  the  feet  of 
our  discouraged  beasts;  and  far  away, 
swirling  and  swelling  in  the  last  places 
we  could  see,  they  raised  a  dust  like  the 
smoke  of  a  forest  fire. 


The  Statesman 


BY  MARIE 

^^^^^^^^ER  triumph  was 
^^^^^^^^P  summed  up  in  the  no- 

JB  T  T  ^ce  on  t^e  elevator  tnat 
ofr  I — I  jfe  read,  "  Reserved  for 
Ml  1  A  lig  Representatives  and 
"^^^^^^^^  Their  Families. "  It 
IS^^^^^^M^  was  before  the  present 
Speaker  did  away  with  the  happy  privi- 
lege of  allowing  Congressmen  and  their 
relatives  to  enjoy  a  national  elevator 
exclusively,  and  Mrs.  Stackpole  stepped 
within  the  car,  serene  in  the  assurance  of 
being  the  wife  of  a  Representative.  The 
elevator  was  crowded  to  suffocation,  it 
being  the  first  Monday  of  December  and 
the  opening  of  Congress;  but  she  was 
unaware  of  this,  as,  dressed  in  her  blue 
broadcloth,  a  shade  too  light,  a  trifle  too 
tight,  she  felt  intensely  conscious  of  em- 
bodying Congressional  family  life. 

She  was  delightfully  cognizant  of  the 
multitude  of  eyes  that  followed  the  car 
in  its  upward  flight — eyes  of  those  not 
entitled  to  ride  in  a  special  elevator. 
The  same  delicious  deference  awaited  her 
at  the  door  of  the  House  gallery — the 
parley  with  the  doorkeeper,  the  produc- 
tion of  the  talismanic  card,  and  the  crack 
opened  wide  enough  to  admit  the  privi- 
leged blue  broadcloth,  and  the  crowd 
again  left  behind. 

The  proceedings  that  launched  this 
particular  Congress  on  its  right-of-way 
were  as  usual.  The  chaplain  prayed  in  a 
sonorous  bass  that  the  deliberations  of 
this  august  assemblage  should  be  marked 
with  wisdom  and  justice.  And  groups 
of  men  made  their  way  to  the  Speaker's 
chair  and  held  up  their  right  hands  in 
affirmation  of  the  oath  of  office.  And 
some  one  offered  resolutions  of  respect 
for  two  or  three  members  who  had  died 
during  adjournment — and  the  thing  was 
done. 

Judge  Stackpole,  who  was  waiting  to 
take  his  wife  to  lunch  in  the  House  res- 
taurant, was  not  sharing  any  of  her 
splendid  emotions;  it  was  his  tenth  term 
in  Congress,  and  the  inaugural  proceed- 


MANNING 

ings  had  become  for  him  largely  routine. 
The  Honorable  Amos  looked  almost 
made  up  for  the  part,  he  was  so  typically 
the  "Southern  statesman."  His  face, 
Roman  in  character,  was  free  from  any 
sordid  suggestion;  the  mouth  large,  mo- 
bile, and  promising  eloquence — the  type 
of  mouth  whose  appeal  is  to  the  heart 
rather  than  to  the  head.  He  wore  a 
black  tie  floating  like  a  pennant  across 
a  bulging  shirt  bosom,  and  his  full- 
skirted  frock-coat  had  long  since  given 
up  the  mission  of  trying  to  establish  a 
waist-line. 

He  had  never  been  known  by  that 
equivocal  epithet  of  the  man  of  affairs, 
"honest."  No  one  ever  spoke  of  him  as 
"honest  Amos  Stackpole,"  but  his  peo- 
ple put  their  unqualified  trust  in  him, 
and  he  had  proved  worthy.  He  had 
never  accumulated  any  money  worth 
mentioning;  there  were  always  so  many 
young  men  to  help,  so  many  women  left 
untrained,  untried,  unprovided  for,  who 
had  to  have  a  "loan"  for  this  or  that 
chimerical  enterprise,  that  at  fifty-eight 
years  of  age  Judge  Stackpole  found  him- 
self with  a  few  thousand  dollars  and 
a  young  wife  whose  spending  capacity 
was  of  the  beyond-the-dreams-of-avarice 
kind  that  has  had  its  inception  in  abject 
poverty. 

"I'd  give  something  to  have  some  of 
Aunt  Jane's  fried  chicken,"  the  Judge 
announced,  shouldering  a  way  for  her 
through  the  crowd. 

"Do  be  careful  about  referring  to 
Aunt  Jane.  Mamma  told  me  it  would 
never  be  understood  here." 

"Understood?"  he  blustered.  "Why, 
good  Lord!  every  one  at  home  knows, 
and  what  the  blazes  does  the  rest  of 
creation  matter?" 

The  Aunt  Jane  referred  to  was  not  a 
poor  relation;  she  was  the  black  cook 
at  Mrs.  Pepwood's  boarding-house,  and 
Mrs.  Pepwood  was  Mrs.  Stackpole's 
mother.  This  lady  had,  of  course,  that 
first  great  requisite  for  taking  boarders: 


224 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


she  had  "suffered  reverses."  When  her 
husband  had  died,  under  a  financial 
cloud,  leaving  as  his  only  available 
assets  a  pair  of  dueling- pistols,  nine 
hunting-dogs,  a  rifle,  and  his  engrossed 
speech  delivered  at  the  Chattanooga 
rally  of  Confederate  veterans,  Mrs.  Pep- 
wood  begged  to  be  allowed  to  die.  And 
as  the  appeal  had  certain  realistic  refer- 
ences to  the  duelling-pistols,  friends  sat 
with  her  in  relays  day  and  night.  In  the 
mean  time,  kindly  disposed  persons  put 
the  house  in  order  for  the  reception  of 
"paying  guests,"  and  Mrs.  Pepwood, 
still  protesting  against  living,  found  her- 
self at  the  head  of  a  prosperous  estab- 
lishment, with  no  further  pains  to  her- 
self than  to  change  from  her  bedroom 
wrapper  to  her  weeping  black. 

Judge  Stackpole,  as  life-long  friend  of 
the  deceased,  was  prevailed  on  to  give 
up  his  comfortable  rooms  in  the  "South- 
ern Palace"  and  take  Mrs.  Pepwood's 
most  expensive  suite.  The  Judge  had 
endured  much,  in  the  name  of  widow 
and  orphan,  but  nothing  had  been  quite 
as  sacrificial  as  giving  up  his  comfort- 
able, rather  down-at-the-heel  quarters 
at  the  hotel  and  becoming  Mrs.  Pep- 
wood's first-floor  front. 

The  specialties  of  the  house  were  ex- 
cellent, if  unpunctual,  meals  and  tears 
at  all  hours.  The  widow  wept,  or  rather 
delicately  drizzled,  continually;  it  never 
seemed  to  interfere  with  anything,  not 
even  with  her  complexion.  It  merely 
humanized  her  matronly,  wax-doll  type 
of  face  and  seemingly  conferred  the  at- 
tributes of  tender  womanhood. 

Mary  Alabama  was  the  temperamental 
opposite  of  her  mother.  She  sang  where 
her  mother  cried,  worked  where  the 
older  lady  gloomily  idled.  She  always 
carried  the  Judge's  lamp  to  his  study 
every  evening  at  twilight  and  stayed 
long  enough  for  a  little  gossip.  Whether 
there  was  any  concious  rivalry  between 
mother  and  daughter  in  their  individual 
roles  of  tears  and  smiles,  not  one  of  the 
boarders  could  say  definitely,  though 
there  was  considerable  speculation.  But 
whatever  might  have  been  the  feelings 
of  the  two  as  rivals,  if  such  they  were, 
the  discord  of  the  skirmish  was  lost  sight 
of  in  the  tremendous  issue  of  "marrying 
a  statesman." 

But  after  Mary  Alabama  was  settled 


in  Washington,  her  sense  of  perfect  tri- 
umph suffered  a  chill.  There  were  so 
many  Congressmen  all  believing  them- 
selves, and  in  turn  believed  by  their 
families,  to  be  "statesmen,"  that  the 
Judge  did  not  stand  out  with  the  efful- 
gence she  had  expected.  There  were 
even  ex-Congressmen  who  relished  the 
statesman  myth  so  keenly  that  they 
could  never  bring  themselves  to  leave 
the  national  capital,  but  stayed  on  and 
prophesied  to  an  hour  the  time  when  the 
country  would  go  to  the  dogs.  That  it 
was  not  well  for  man  to  be  alone  seemed 
to  have  been  written  with  special  refer- 
ence to  the  Congressman.  He  was  never 
alone;  if  he  had  no  wife,  he  was  more 
than  amply  provided  with  sisters,  cou- 
sins, and  aunts,  all  crowding  into  the 
limelight.  What  chance,  therefore,  had 
Mary  Alabama  with  her  trousseau, 
made  by  mamma  and  Miss  Simkin  (who 
came  in  by  the  day)  ? 

At  home  Mary  Alabama  had  regarded 
the  Honorable  Amos  as  a  great  man;  he 
was  endeared  to  his  people  by  a  hundred 
acts  of  kindness;  his  honesty  was  pro- 
verbial. But  in  Washington  these  quali- 
ties became  rather  negligible  virtues 
when  taken  in  conjunction  with  a  lack 
of  material  prosperity.  Other  Represen- 
tatives had  grown  rich  in  public  life; 
their  houses,  motors,  wives'  jewels,  opu- 
lently illustrated  the  opportunities  for 
amassing  wealth  by  a  servant  of  the 
people.  Why  couldn't  her  husband  have 
had  a  little  ambition? 

The  apartment  in  which  they  finally 
set  up  housekeeping  was  small,  but  in  a 
good  neighborhood,  and  for  a  time  Mary 
Alabama  was  almost  happy  in  doing  up 
the  drawing-room  in  pink  and  gold; 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  gold;  it  rather 
suggested  the  lavish  display  of  precious 
metal  used  by  old-fashioned  dentists. 
But  there  were  other  dental-looking 
drawing-rooms  in  Washington,  quite  a 
number  of  them.  Under  a  more  seasoned 
wing,  Mrs.  Stackpole  made  the  official 
calls  and  then  sat  down  and  waited  for 
them  to  be  returned.  Her  Tuesdays 
were  not  a  marked  success;  she  had  no 
social  specialty — she  wasn't  rich,  beau- 
tiful, witty;  she  had  no  spectacular 
mission;  she  wasn't  even  a  little  "gay." 
She  was  just  a  little  woman  with  the 
average  leavening  of  good  looks  who 


THE  STATESMAN 


225 


liked  to  wear  paradise  plumes  in  her  hats 
because  they  looked  expensive. 

Her  social  tuition  moved  in  slow  if 
regular  progression;  she  passed  from 
teas  to  luncheons,  from  luncheons  to 
dinners.  It  looked  beguilingly  easy  to 
pack  one's  house  with  agreeable  people, 
and  it  filled  her  with  a  spirit  of  emula- 
tion. The  little  dinners  with  good  talk, 
good  service,  and  a  good  menu — num- 
bers of  women  managed  them  on  small 
incomes;  why  not  she? 

She  saw,  on  every  side,  women  sailing 
the  social  high  seas,  with  an  impressive 
spread  of  canvas,  unembarrassed  by  drag- 
ging marital  anchors.  Mrs.  Amos  longed 
to  spread  a  sail,  to  become  one  of  that 
vast  fleet  that  dipped  and  raced  and 
conquered  by  the  sheer  force  of  the  flier. 
There  were  not  wanting  pilots  eager  for 
the  responsibility  of  pointing  the  way. 
Some  had  lost  their  own  sailing-papers 
by  reason  of  social  shipwreck,  some  by 
financial  failure,  and  some  were  natural 
pilots  who  enjoyed  the  adventure  of 
steering  unknown  vessels  into  difficult 
waters  more  than  they  relished  the  sail- 
ing of  their  own  well-established  craft. 

The  eagerness  of  local  tradesmen  "to 
run  an  account"  for  a  Congressman's 
wife  made  sailing  on  credit  possible.  It 
seemed,  temporarily  at  least,  the  easiest 
solution  of  that  trite  impossibility — 
having  and  eating  one's  cake  simulta- 
neously. 

The  invitations  to  Mrs.  Stackpole's 
first  dinner  fluttered  forth,  like  the  dove 
from  the  ark  that  found  no  resting-place. 
The  imposing  list  of  "fashionable"  semi- 
acquaintances  to  whom  they  were  ad- 
dressed declined  to  a  man.  Down  these 
dizzy  heights  they  sped  in  short  flights 
until  graciously  received  at  less  rarefied 
levels.  Mary's  social  drag-net  finally  re- 
vealed the  following  prandial  haul:  The 
bachelor  Senator  of  a  State  so  remote  and 
Western  that  its  very  name  seemed  fic- 
tional in  character — a  mere  background 
to  a  noble  drama  of  sombreros  and  hearts 
of  gold.  There  was  the  wife  of  an  assistant 
secretary  of  something;  the  numerical  de- 
gree at  which  he  supported  his  chief  was 
uncertain,  but  her  unbending  attitude 
hinted  that  it  was  well  down  the  line. 
And  there  was  the  usual  leavening  of 
"nice"  people — social  pilgrims  ascend- 
ing and  descending  the  ladder,  who  for 


the  time  being  meet  at  houses  like  the 
Stackpoles',  which  in  Washington  may 
bloom  into  a  center  of  importance  or 
decline  in  a  day.  There  was  also  Josie 
Haven,  the  woman  playwright,  and 
there  was  J.  Lothrop  Weld,  who  "went 
everywhere,"  but  whose  mysterious 
sources  of  income  were  open  to  specula- 
tion; he  was  accredited  with  having 
much  influence  in  certain  quarters  at 
the  Capitol.  The  list  of  diners  concluded 
with  Mrs.  Blair-Smith,  who  divided 
opinions  regarding  herself  even  as  she 
divided  her  name. 

Judge  Stackpole  did  not  know  much 
about  "little  dinners";  big  banquets 
with  political  speeches  were  more  in  his 
line.  But  he  looked  the  part  of  host  to 
perfection;  his  fine  old  Roman  head, 
which  even  the  most  gifted  of  cartoon- 
ists' pencils  could  not  wholly  rob  of  its 
nobility,  lent  distinction  to  any  gather- 
ing. 

J.  Lothrop  Weld,  who  "went  every- 
where" and  who  was  regarded  by  the 
"interests"  he  represented  as  "effi- 
cient," strained  an  ear  through  the  light 
hail  of  chatter  for  the  least  rumbling  of 
speech  on  the  part  of  his  host.  What 
would  this  little  goose  of  a  wife  do  with 
the  incorruptible  old  Roman?  The  lit- 
tle dinner  proved  that  she  was  ambitious, 
and  ambition  required  money,  and  money 
the  old  Roman  had  none. 

There  was  no  Southern  State  more 
prosperous, or  richer  in  natural  resources, 
than  the  one  Judge  Stackpole  helped  to 
represent  in  Congress.  His  first  term 
had  begun  before  that  inpouring  of 
Northern  capital  and  unlooked-for  up- 
rising of  Southern  enterprise  that  turned 
her  from  an  improvident  day-dreamer 
into  a  humming  hive  of  money-making. 
The  cotton -mill  had  drawn  large  sec- 
tions of  the  population  to  feed  its  un- 
sleeping energies:  beetle-browed  men, 
unshapely  women,  and  pale-faced  chil- 
dren, caught  like  flies  in  the  web  of  its 
gigantic  spinning;  human  automata 
dragged  by  the  endless  monotony  of 
constant  repetition  of  movement  to  a 
level  with  the  machines  they  tended, 
machines  that  repaid  an  instant's  inat- 
tention by  maiming  and  death. 

Though  the  Judge's  constituency  was 
gradually  turning  from  agricultural  to 
manufacturing  interests,  as  the  younger 


226 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


generations  of  the  old  families  allied 
themselves  with  the  cotton  industry, 
still  he  never  wavered  from  the  stand  he 
had  taken  in  the  beginning  against  child 
labor — as  Mr.  J.  Lothrop  Weld  knew  to 
his  cost  on  a  certain  occasion  that  Stack- 
pole  chose  to  forget  when  he  met  him 
to-night,  apparently  for  the  first  time. 

Josie  Haven  decided  during  dinner  that 
she  would  like  to  write  a  play  about  the 
cotton-mills;  the  people  must  be  so  pic- 
turesque. Would  the  Judge  ever  have 
time  to  give  her  the  necessary  data? 

"She  confides  so  much  more  than  she 
composes,"  Mrs.  Blair-Smith  remarked 
to  her  neighbor  Weld;  "the  butcher,  the 
baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker  hear 
of  the  plays  that  are  never  written." 

"But  she  did  write  one  once,  didn't 
she?" 

"How  like  a  man  to  remember  her 
first  false  step — but  hear!  hear!  she's 
started  the  Old  Roman  on  a  peroration." 

"His  narratives  are  always  longer  than 
they  are  broad."  And  Weld  relaxed 
rather  limply  while  his  host  held  forth 
on  the  congenial  theme.  It  was  the  era 
of  reform,  and  Representatives  were  out- 
doing one  another,  like  competitive  sales- 
men, in  handing  bones  to  the  under  dog. 
But  Stackpole  had  been  handing  them 
long  before  that  kind  of  benevolence  had 
become  popular. 

Now  he  was  begging  his  guests,  much 
as  he  would  have  pleaded  with  the  House 
of  Representatives,  to  take  a  lesson  from 
the  pages  of  modern  history — the  his- 
tory of  England  during  the  Boer  War. 
England  had  sapped  the  vitality  of  her 
children  for  generations  by  working 
them  in  coal-mines,  in  mills,  in  factories, 
and  the  far-seeing  political  economist 
had  cried  his  warning  in  the  wilderness. 
Greed  had  had  no  ears  to  hear,  no  eyes 
to  see.  Legislative  measures  for  the 
conservation  of  the  life  and  health  of 
English  children  were  defeated,  year 
after  year,  in  Parliament,  and  when  the 
acts  governing  child-labor  in  England 
were  finally  passed  young  Johnny  Bull 
had  lost  his  square  frame,  his  deep  chest, 
his  broad  shoulders.  It  was  not  till  the 
Boer  War,  when  England  tried  to  enlist 
her  little  parody  of  a  man  which  she  had 
created  in  her  own  army,  that  she  read 
for  the  first  time  the  writing  on  the 
wall.  Three  times  did  the  physical  quali- 


fications for  the  enlisted  man  have  to  be 
changed,  and  three  times  did  the  little 
parody  of  John  Bull  fail  to  meet  them. 
His  hollow  chest,  sapped  by  generations 
of  mill  and  mine  work,  had  been  no 
match  for  a  handful  of  lusty  Boers,  and 
it  was  not  till  England  poured  out  her 
little  men  like  water  that  she  was  able 
to  turn  the  tide.  And  so  it  will  be  with 
us  unless  we  take  warning — the  day  of 
reckoning  will  come  when  we  shall  turn 
to  these  little  ones  and  ask  the  service 
we  have  made  it  impossible  for  them  to 
render. 

The  guests  had  looked  a  trifle  uncom- 
fortable during  the  diatribe;  why  should 
any  one  interfere  with  the  delightful 
processes  of  digestion  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  such  an  unpleasant  theme?  "I 
don't  know  anything  about  politics," 
said  Mrs.  Stackpole,  "but  I  intend  to 
take  it  up." 

"Don't  let  politics  crush  you  the  way 
it  has  women  who — "  Weld  began,  but 
Mary  Alabama  interrupted  with  one  of 
her  bursts  of  naivete: 

"Oh  no;  I  mean  to  take  it  up  to 
improve  myself." 

After  the  departure  of  the  last  guest, 
the  hostess,  pleasantly  fatigued  with 
the  success  of  her  first  dinner,  lin- 
gered in  the  pink-and-gold  drawing-room 
to  enjoy  the  last  embers  of  the  open  fire, 
the  arrangement  of  the  flowers,  the  glow 
of  the  pink -shaded  lamps  that  had 
awarded  marvelous  complexions  to  all, 
irrespective  of  age  or  previous  condition 
of  pulchritude.  The  Judge,  on  his  night- 
ly round  of  securing  doors,  stopped  for  a 
moment's  chat. 

"Ma'y  Alabama,  Honey,  where  in  the 
name  of  the  nation  did  you  pick  up  your 
friends,  Mr.  J.  Lothrop  Weld  and  Mrs. 
Blair-Smith?" 

"Why,  I  meet  them  everywhere;  they 
go  to  the  very  nicest  houses." 

"Well,  my  dear,  he's  a  lobbyist  of 
rather  unsavory  repute;  he's  backing  up 
some  of  the  rottenest  conditions  at  home; 
and  as  for  Mrs.  Blair-Smith,  she's  as 
shady  as  a  grove  of  fir-trees  after  dark. 
I  don't  like  to  throw  cold  water  on  any 
plans  of  yours,  Honey,  but  I  hope  you'll 
give  those  two  all  the  sidewalk  they 
need." 

With  the  intuitive  cleverness  of  the 
American  woman,  Mrs.  Stackpole  saw 


Drawn  by  Walter  Biggs 

A    GREAT    WORK    AWAITHI)    HER,    AND    ONE   THAT    WOULD    NOT   GO  UNREWARDED 


THE  STATESMAN 


227 


how  the  little  blunders  of  her  first  din- 
ner might  be  converted  into  the  suc- 
cesses of  her  second.  She  would  serve 
the  claret  warmer,  the  champagne  colder; 
her  husband  must  be  gently  repressed 
when  he  became  forensic;  and  a  simpler 
salad  was  in  better  taste  than  one  of 
those  mixed,  fruity  things.  She  got  into 
the  little -dinner  habit;  if  she  overspent 
her  allowance,  they  were  more  than 
obliging  at  the  House  post-office  window 
about  cashing  her  checks.  She  did  not 
give  up  her  friendship  with  Mrs.  Blair- 
Smith,  but  she  was  careful  not  to  have 
her  at  the  house  when  the  Judge  was 
likely  to  be  there.  She  was  in  the  habit 
of  meeting  her  at  the  Willard  and  having 
tea  with  her  in  the  afternoons.  Mrs. 
Blair-Smith  was  invaluable  in  helping 
her  select  a  new  wardrobe;  the  trousseau 
was  not  what  she  had  thought  it  in  the 
beginning. 

She  no  longer  kept  accounts;  they 
worried  her.  She  got  into  debt,  which 
she  explained  to  her  husband  by  saying 
she  could  never  understand  arithmetic. 
And  he  always  paid  her  debts  and  gave 
her  a  little  nest-egg  to  start  again;  but 
the  continued  bills  and  over-drafts  made 
him  look  grave,  and  he  had  a  seri- 
ous talk  with  her  about  the  unwisdom 
of  constantly  drawing  on  their  small 
reserve. 

Her  doctor  recommended  "a  little 
electric,"  that  she  might  be  more  out-of- 
doors;  she  borrowed  some  money  and 
had  his  prescription  filled,  partly  on 
credit.  And  she  explained  the  presence 
of  the  little  car  to  her  husband  by  saying 
a  friend  had  gone  to  Europe  and  lent  it 
to  her. 

At  the  close  of  the  season  she  left 
Washington  with  a  feeling  of  dread.  Her 
position  at  home,  owing  to  her  father's 
financial  shortcomings,  had  never  been 
one  of  dignity.  She  had  married  "the 
statesman"  in  whom  every  one  felt  a 
sort  of  prideful  ownership,  but  it  was 
beyond  the  pale  of  human  nature,  as  she 
understood  human  nature,  not  to  pa- 
tronize her  under  the  circumstances.  So 
Mary  Alabama  strengthened  her  de- 
fenses against  such  a  possibility.  She 
would  check  the  first  suggestion  of  it 
with  her  official  manner,  her  Washington 
wardrobe,  her  English  accent,  and  her 
reserve.    She  did — and  at  the  same  time 


she  checked  her  old  friends'  warm-hearted 
interest  in  the  girl  who  had  grown  up 
among  them. 

Her  husband  did  not  see  what  others 
saw,  that  his  wife  was  alienating  the 
womankind  of  his  former  friends.  He 
was  baffled,  hurt,  humiliated  by  the 
tangible  something  that  seemed  to  have 
dropped,  like  a  blurring  curtain  of  fog, 
between  him  and  his  former  cronies, 
something  that  distorted  and  made  even 
their  words  and  the  sound  of  their  voices 
seem  strange. 

Mrs.  Pepwood,  who  knew  human  na- 
ture better  than  her  daughter,  remarked 
with  that  lack  of  reserve  that  is  often 
the  undisputed  privilege  of  the  family 
circle:  "May  Alabama,  you  are  a  bigger 
fool  than  I  ever  took  you  for,  and  I  your 
mother,  too.  But  every  time  you  pea- 
cock down  Main  Street  in  those  Wash- 
ington clothes  you  lose  a  vote  for  your 
husband." 

Those  Washington  clothes  from  which 
Mrs.  Pepwood  drew  such  gloomy  prog- 
nostications had  not  been  paid  for,  and 
the  tradesmen  who  in  opening  the  ac- 
count seemed  to  deal  wholly  on  the 
futurity  plan,  lost  something  of  their 
suavity  with  the  recurrence  of  each  long, 
narrow  envelope.  They  no  longer  called 
"her  esteemed  attention  to  their  new 
line  of — "  but  "feared  the  account,  long 
overdue,  must  have  escaped  her  atten- 
tion." In  a  few  instances,  a  collector 
informed  her  "that  the  bill  had  been 
placed  in  his  hands  for  collection,  and 
unless  the  matter  was  attended  to  imme- 
diately, steps — "  but  these  letters  were 
always  too  painful  for  her  to  finish,  and 
she  burned  them  in  childish  revenge. 

A  temporary  escape  from  her  difficul- 
ties presented  itself  in  a  letter  from 
Washington,  begging  "Darling  Mrs. 
Stackpole"  to  join  Josie  Haven  and  Mrs. 
Blair-Smith  at  Atlantic  City  for  a  couple 
of  weeks.  The  Judge  readily  agreed  to 
the  little  holiday;  his  wife's  nervous 
fretfulness  often  puzzled  him,  and  he 
wondered  with  a  vague  self-reproach  if 
he  had  neglected  any  of  the  little  atten- 
tions that  count  for  so  much  in  a  wom- 
an's life.  Mary  Alabama  neglected  to 
mention  the  name  of  Blair-Smith  in  con- 
nection with  the  expedition;  she  merely 
said  she  was  going  to  join  Mrs.  Haven 
at  the  city  by  the  sea. 


228 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Atlantic  City,  with  its  meretricious 
sparkle,  its  throngs,  its  dogged  air  of 
continuous  carnival,  its  swaggering  as- 
sumption of  shouldering  your  troubles — 
whatever  they  might  be — and  flinging 
you  in  return  a  cinematograph  of  itself, 
restored  to  Mrs.  Stackpole  something  of 
her  lost  balance.  At  the  end  of  the  week 
their  party  was  reinforced  by  Mr.  J. 
Lothrop  Weld.  The  meeting  was  pro- 
claimed by  all  parties  concerned  to  be 
most  happily  accidental.  Two  other 
men,  also  friends  of  Mrs.  Blair-Smith, 
came  later,  apparently  as  unexpectedly 
as  Mr.  Weld.  Mr.  Huff  and  Mr.  Will- 
iams seemed  gentlemen  of  lesser  impor- 
tance than  Mr.  Weld;  their  social  note 
was  one  of  high  cheerfulness,  verging  on 
farce  comedy. 

In  the  triple  division  of  the  party 
Weld  invariably  fell  to  the  lot  of  Mrs. 
Stackpole,  who,  in  the  phrase  of  her 
native  county,  began  to  fear  that  he 
must  believe  her  "strong-minded,"  he 
talked  so  continually  about  the  advan- 
tages of  child-labor  to  the  child,  local 
prosperity,  and  wages  at  the  high  level. 
When  Mrs.  Blair-Smith  questioned  her 
as  to  what  Weld  talked  about  and  if  she 
did  not  find  him  a  little  dull,  Mary 
Alabama  poutingly  answered: 

"He  talks  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  man. 
I  don't  know  why  he  thinks  I'm  clever." 

Mrs.  Blair-Smith  turned  the  sparkle 
of  her  merriment  on  Weld  at  the  first 
opportunity:  "Johnny,  you're  not  hunt- 
ing in  the  Senate,  or  the  House,  either. 
The  rifle  you're  using  is  too  large  for  a 
canary.  Cut  out  economic  generalities. 
Heavens!   She's  only  twenty." 

He  laughed.  "Thanks,  I  see — sending 
the  wrong  bark  up  the  right  tree." 

"The  right  kind  of  bark,  at  present,  is 
Irish  crochet  and  cash.  She  ruined  old 
Amos.  What  he  ever  saw  in  her  I  can't 
understand.  He  could  have  had  any- 
thing— Senate,  Cabinet,  anything,  but 
Mary  Alabama  is  rapidly  applying  the 
snuffers." 

"Then  perhaps  it  isn't  worth  while — " 
"Oh  yes,  it  is!  They've  got  the  Uncle 
Amos  habit  bad  down  there,  and  they'll 
hang  on  for  a  term  or  two.  Then  the 
deluge;  husbands  unmade  while  you 
wait,  ought  to  be  the  motto  of  that  type 
of  Congressman's  wife." 

Dinner  at  the  Woodstock-Churchill 


that  night  took  on  an  air  of  deliberate 
festivity.  They  lingered  at  the  table  the 
better  part  of  two  hours. 

"If  we  sit  here  any  longer,  they'll 
bring  in  the  oatmeal  for  breakfast,"  Mrs. 
Blair-Smith  smiled  with  comprehensive 
amiability  at  the  three  men.  "Who'll  go 
for  the  prams?" 

Mrs.  Stackpole  and  Weld  were  the 
last  to  enter  the  double  wheeler  chairs 
awaiting  their  party.  The  scene — the 
boardwalk  thronging  with  gay  crowds, 
the  hanging-gardens  of  big  flowered  hats, 
the  moonlit  sea,  the  changing  electric- 
light  signs  flashing  their  pictures  to  high 
heaven,  all  the  gay  bubble  of  life,  the 
iridescence  that  to  Mary  Alabama  meant 
living — she  saw  it  all  through  tears  of 
happiness;  it  was  so  good  to  get  away 
from  bills  and  worries — even  for  a  few 
days.  Something  within  her  pent-up 
consciousness  gave  way  and  she  talked 
to  Weld  of  her  troubles,  her  debts,  the 
collector-wolf  in  every  mail,  and  of  her 
fear  of  confessing  again  to  her  husband. 

Weld's  sensations  were  those  of  an  old 
and  experienced  mouser  who  has  sat  long 
and  patiently  by  the  mouse-hole:  his 
victim  had  shown  a  head,  but  he  was  too 
wary  to  pounce;  it  was  a  time  for 
patience  and  sympathy,  especially  sym- 
pathy. He  looked  out  on  the  moonlit 
sea;  he  sighed  and  said  it  was  cruel  that 
life  should  have  any  hard  corners  for  her; 
she  was  too  young — too  pretty.  Then 
he  took  up  the  thread  of  his  favorite  dis- 
course; threw  the  shuttle  far  and  wide; 
the  old  names,  the  old  arguments,  came 
streaming  out:  she  had  it  in  her  power  to 
adjust  all  her  little  personal  worries  and  ■ 
at  the  same  time  to  do  a  great  work,  a 
work  of  mercy,  of  true  philanthropy,  a 
work  that  had  for  its  object  the  educa- 
tion and  uplift  of  multitudes  of  little 
children  from  the  hovels  of  the  poor 
whites  in  their  own  State — children  to 
whom  the  great  cotton  industry  stood  as 
their  one  chance  in  life. 

She  had  heard  child-labor  fiercely  de- 
nounced by  her  husband,  as  the  modern 
Herod  that  slew  little  children  with  slow 
cruelty.  She  had  heard  him  tell  that 
they  could  be  distinguished  from  all 
other  children  by  the  hacking  cough  ac- 
quired from  constantly  inhaling  cotton- 
waste — the  waste  that  stuck  to  hair, 
clothes,  eyebrows,  and  skin — the  pow- 


THE  STATESMAN 


229 


dery  stuff  that  sifted  into  the  lungs  and 
brought  about  the  gradual  disintegration 
of  the  child. 

But  Weld  presented  a  different  and 
far  more  comfortable  point  of  view.  The 
law  of  the  State  compelled  education,  it 
did  not  permit  children  to  work  in  the 
mills  unless  they  attended  school  and 
attended  school  continuously.  Step  by 
step  he  advanced  argument  after  argu- 
ment, disclosing,  to  any  open-minded 
person,  the  great  advantages  to  the  chil- 
dren of  working  in  the  mills.  And  she 
could  make  her  thoroughly  good  but 
mistaken  husband  see  his  error  if  any 
one  could — he  was  working  to  take  from 
these  children  their  birthright  of  self- 
help.  A  great  work  awaited  her  and 
one  that  would  not  go  unrewarded.  If 
she  would  help  the  poor  little  mill  chil- 
dren by  making  Uncle  Amos  see  the 
harm  he  was  doing  them,  the  people 
who  had  the  ultimate  good  of  the  chil- 
dren at  heart  would  help  her  over  her 
little  difficulties. 

And  Mary  Alabama,  who  had  always 
expected  some  fairy-story  escape  from 
her  debts,  promised,  with  a  certainty  of 
power  she  felt  to  be  infinite,  "to  talk 
her  husband  over." 

"Give  me  this  little  hand  on  it." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  Weld's  and 
he  raised  it  with  his  hand  clasped  about 
hers:    "I  promise." 

"Good  little  girl,"  was  all  he  said, 
and  ordered  the  chair-man  back  to  the 
Woodstock-Churchill.  When  they  shook 
hands  at  parting,  he  gave  her  a  little 
Irish  crochet  bag  like  one  she  had  ad- 
mired in  a  shop  a  few  days  ago.  As  she 
took  it  something  within  crackled  crisply. 

In  two  weeks'  time  Mrs.  Stackpole 
was  home  and  the  tradesmen  had  again 
begun  to  write  requesting  "her  esteemed 
patronage."  The  little  Irish  crochet  bag 
had  proved  an  Aladdin's  lamp;  she 
rubbed  it  and  it  paid  for  the  little  elec- 
tric, for  garage  charges,  milliners'  bills, 
florists'  bills,  caterers'  bills,  her  bridge 
debts,  and  still  she  had  enough  to  start 
a  new  bank  account  and  with  it  a  firm 
purpose  of  amendment.  She  even  man- 
aged to  summon  an  eleventh-hour  gra- 
ciousness  to  old  friends  at  home,  but 
they  persisted  in  remaining  in  the  frigid 
zone  of  her  regard  where  at  first  she  had 
been  at  such  pains  to  put  them. 

Vol.  CXXVIIL— No.  764.-29 


The  Judge  was  now  away  from  home 
for  long  periods  on  electioneering  busi- 
ness, and  when  he  returned  for  a  day 
or  two  even  his  wife  noticed  the  cloud 
of  anxiety  that  seemed  to  have  settled 
on  his  face. 

"I  think  I  must  be  getting  old,  Ma'y 
Alabama,  Honey.  I  can't  get  close  to  'em 
any  more.  I'm  like  some  one  shouting 
a  different  language — a  foreign  language 
they  don't  understand." 

"It  will  be  all  right  at  election,  any- 
way," said  his  wife  with  the  easy  op- 
timism of  one  whose  own  troubles  have 
been  settled. 

"I  wonder — ?  There  are  lying  hints 
that  I've  played  'em  false,  sold  out  to  the 
money  interests.  Where  they  come  from 
beats  me." 

But  Mary  Alabama,  serene  in  her 
fairy-story  conception  of  life,  remained 
unperturbed.  Her  husband's  troubles 
were  a  thing  apart  from  her  own.  Her 
chief  anxiety  at  present  was  that  she  had 
taken  the  money  from  Weld  in  August 
and  it  was  now  late  October  and  she 
had  not  yet  found  an  opportunity  of 
presenting  to  the  Judge  the  great  edu- 
cational and  economic  advantages  con- 
nected with  child-labor.  Any  woman 
with  an  average  endowment  of  intuition 
would  have  known  that  the  present  was 
the  most  unfavorable  time  for  the  pres- 
entation of  her  case.  Not  so  Mrs. 
Stackpole,  who,  despite  the  fact  that  her 
husband  was  exhausted  from  a  night 
spent  in  traveling,  a  round  of  speeches 
that  he  felt  had  miscarried,  opened  up 
without  a  single  misgiving  her  domestic 
campaign  for  the  interest  of  the  opposi- 
tion. 

"Amos  dear,  why  are  you  so  opposed 
to  child-labor?  Doesn't  the  prosperity 
of  our  State  very  largely  depend  on  it? 
isn't  it  offsetting  the  terrible  poverty 
brought  about  by  the  Civil  War?  and 
aren't  there  very  great  advantages  con- 
nected with  it  for  the  child — things  like 
compulsory  education  and  the  chance  it 
gives  them  to  escape  from  their  dreadful 
homes  and  to  get  better  treatment  from 
their  parents  because  they  help  to  keep 
the  pot  boiling?" 

She  paused,  trying  to  think  of  some  of 
the  other  benefits  that  Weld  had  told 
her  of;  but  the  strange,  wild-looking 
man  backing   away  from  her  with  a 


230 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


gesture  of  silencing  protest  scattered 
her  wits.  Her  husband's  face  changed 
to  the  gray-white  of  putty,  the  muscles 
hung  relaxed  like  a  death-mask.  She 
looked  at  him  stupidly,  the  indulgent 
old  man  that  she  had  twisted  about  her 
finger  ever  since  she  had  been  a  little 
girl. 

"It's  true,  then,  what  I  heard  and 
rammed  down  the  throat  of  the  old 
friend  that  told  me  as  a  lie — you  were 
with  Weld  and  the  Blair-Smith  woman 
at  Atlantic  City.  I  recognize  his  line  of 
argument;  I  shoved  him  out  of  my  com- 
mittee once  for  attempting  the  same 
monstrous  untruths  to  me.  You — you 
— who  have  seen  these  miserable  little 
creatures,  to  say  these  things  to  me! 
There  are  over  a  million  of  these  children 
dying  of  overwork;  we  are  turning  out 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  degen- 
erates yearly,  and  you  attempt  to  plead 
for  the  system.  Aren't  children  shipped 
like  cattle  into  our  State  to  work  in  the 
mills  from  States  where  the  laws  gov- 
erning child-labor  are  good?  The  law 
with  us  is  that  no  child  under  twelve 
shall  work — but  the  mills  are  full  of 
babies  because  we  have  no  factory  in- 
spectors to  enforce  the  law.  We  say  that 
education  shall  be  compulsory;  how 
much  education?  Eight  weeks  in  the 
whole  year,  six  of  which  must  be  con- 
secutive. But  have  we  a  single  truant 
officer  or  factory  inspector  in  the  mill 
districts  to  compel  the  observance  of  this 
slight  concession  to  humanity  ?  We  have 
not,  as  Weld  and  the  Blair-Smith  woman 
know  to  their  profit.  And  they  are 
using  every  shred  of  their  sinister  influ- 
ence to  defeat  me  in  having  these  laws 
enforced."  His  voice  dropped  to  a  whis- 
per. "What  did  they  give  you  for 
this?" 

She  had  a  baffled  sense  of  struggling 
in  some  nightmare  horror,  where  she 
kept  falling,  falling,  and  was  powerless  to 
cry  out.  He  did  not  repeat  his  question, 
but  he  waited  with  the  grimness  of 
eternity  for  her  answer.  She  tried  to 
pull  herself  together  for  a  denial,  but  the 
conciliatory  old  man  whom  she  had  been 
ashamed  of,  whom  she  had  deluded, 
betrayed,  had  suddenly  been  trans- 
formed into  the  symbol  of  justice  and 
truth  which  he  had  been  fighting  for  all 
his  public  life. 


"They  gave  me  five  thousand  dollars. 
I've  spent  most  of  it  paying  my  debts." 
Her  statement  ended  in  an  hysterical 
burst  of  weeping.  Even  in  that  moment 
of  crudest  disillusion  he  thought,  "She's 
only  twenty." 

The  confession,  after  it  was  over, 
seemed  a  relief  to  her,  and  she  poured 
out  the  whole  story  of  folly  and  decep- 
tion, repeating  endless  details  and  irrele- 
vancies.  He  heard  it  all  without  a  word 
of  reproach,  only  the  gray  wretchedness 
of  his  face  betraying  what  it  cost  him. 
When  it  was  over  he  said,  very  gently, 
"Ma'y  Alabama,  go  wash  the  tears  off" 
your  face.  I  hate  to  see  a  woman  cry." 
And  he  held  the  door  open  for  her  with 
the  gentle  deference  he  showed  all 
women. 

Then  he  locked  the  door  of  his  study, 
that  was  cluttered  with  high-heeled  slip- 
pers, shirtwaists  in  the  process  of  being 
"hand-embroidered,"  novels  opened  face 
downward,  and  a  plate  of  half-consumed 
candy.  Through  the  anguish  of  those 
first  minutes  only  one  thought  remained 
clear:  he  must  go  to  Washington  by  the 
night  train,  go  to  the  safe-deposit  vault 
that  held  the  five  one-thousand-dollar 
bonds — his  entire  savings — sell  them, 
and  return  the  money  to  Weld. 

But  if  he  carried  out  this  programme  he 
would  not  be  able  to  give  his  great  speech 
on  Thursday,  the  speech  he  was  depend- 
ing on  to  silence,  once  and  for  all,  the 
rumors  of  broken  faith.  He  tried  to 
think  of  some  one,  in  Washington,  to 
whom  he  could  give  the  keys  of  his  safe 
and  the  power  of  attorney  to  sell  the 
bonds,  but  he  had  few  friends  outside 
his  political  associates,  and  they  were, 
like  himself,  attending  to  their  own  elec- 
tioneering interests.  And  the  night 
train  saw  him  go. 

No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  im- 
mense advantage  he  was  giving  his  ene- 
mies; only  too  well  he  .knew  what  their 
boast  would  be — that  he  had  run  away 
from  the  charges  he  was  unable  to  de- 
fend. And,  after  all,  how  could  he  give 
that  speech  whole-heartedly  when  his 
wife  had  sold  him  out  to  the  money 
interests?  And  yet,  through  it  all,  he 
had  faith  in  his  people,  the  people  he  had 
represented  for  over  twenty  years  in 
Congress.  Times  had  changed,  interest 
had  changed,  and  the  sons  of  many  of 


Drawn  by  Walter  Biggs 

HE    HEARD    IT    ALL    WITHOUT    A    WORD    OF  RLPROACH 


THE  LOOK 


231 


his  old  friends  had  become  mill-owners, 
but  they  would  do  the  right  thing  by 
these  miserable  little  ones;  they  had 
children  of  their  own,  and  they  would 
stand  by  him  in  his  fight  for  justice  and 
humanity. 

The  business  in  Washington  took 
longer  than  he  had  expected;  a  couple 
of  days  were  spent  before  the  bonds  were 
sold  and  Weld  was  out  of  town.  The 
Judge  waited  for  his  return,  deciding  to 
give  back  the  money  personally,  rather 
than  risk  further  complications  by  letter. 
Thursday,  the  day  of  the  great  speech 
that  was  never  made,  came  and  went. 
Friday;  and  still  Weld  continued  absent; 
Saturday,  Sunday — and  Weld  returned 
at  midnight.  Monday  was  election-day, 
and  as  it  was  now  useless  to  travel,  he 
decided  to  remain  in  Washington  and 
await  the  results.  Tuesday  morning 
they  came,  in  a  telegram  from  an  old 
friend:  "Stickney  elected,  small  major- 
ity, interests  perniciously  active  in  your 
absence. " 

On  the  journey  homeward,  though  he 
thought  of  little  else  than  his  defeat,  he 
was  not  fully  conscious  of  it.  He  ex- 
perienced it  more  keenly  when  he  re- 
ceived the  abashed  and  furtive  saluta- 
tions of  old  friends  on  the  streets.  And 
he  knew  it  for  haggard  certainty  in  the 
first  glimpse  he  caught  of  his  wife.  She 
was  still  only  twenty,  but  she  had  lived 
a  lifetime  of  realization,  loss,  and  bitter 


eleventh-hour  readjustment  in  his  ab- 
sence. She  stood,  leaning  slightly  against 
the  wall  of  their  sitting-room,  waiting 
for  him  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  her- 
self, that  she  had  ruined  his  life,  be- 
trayed his  trust,  sold  him  to  his  enemies. 
She  had  lived  through  the  scalding 
words  so  often  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand his  withholding  them  a  moment 
longer.  But  he  said  nothing,  only  rum- 
maged about  for  a  black  and  disrepu- 
table pipe  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
turn  to  in  bad  times,  and  went  out  on  the 
veranda  to  smoke. 

She  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  fol- 
lowed him:  "Amos,  I  did  it;  it  was  all 
my  fault.  I'm  not  going  to  say  Fm 
sorry,  because  if  I  died  of  grieving  it 
would  be  nothing  to  the  wrong  Fve  done 
you.  But  I  am  going  to  try  to  make  you 
learn  to  respect  me.  Fve  taken  over  the 
management  of  this  house  from  mamma 
and  Fm  going  to  make  it  a  success.  If 
it's  looked  after  it  means  a  living  for  us 
all,  and  I  can  do  at  least  that." 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  he  grasped 
the  meaning  of  what  she  had  said.  Then, 
with  the  slowness  of  speech  that  seemed 
to  be  growing  on  him,  he  answered: 
"May  Alabama,  Honey,  it  looks  might- 
ily as  if  I  had  got  back  the  dear  little  girl 
I  used  to  buy  dolls  for  up  on  Main 
Street.  Sometimes,  in  Washington,  I 
felt  as  if  Fd  lost  her,  but  she's  right 
here."    And  he  patted  her  hand  softly. 


The  Look 

BY  SARA  TEASDALE 

STREPHON  kissed  me  in  the  spring, 
Robin  in  the  fall, 
But  Colin  only  looked  at  me 
And  never  kissed  at  all. 

Strephon's  kiss  was  lost  in  jest, 

Robin's  lost  in  play, 
But  the  kiss  in  Colin's  eyes 

Haunts  me  night  and  day. 


The  Price  of  Love 


A  NOVEL 

BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


CHAPTER  II— Continued 

^^^^^OUIS  FORES  had  been 
^S^^^^^^S  intoxicated  into  a  con- 
mM  ¥  §M>  dition  °f  Poesy-  He  was 
\ft  !w  deliciously  incapable  of 

1~J  any  precise  thinking; 

^^^j-^^j^^^^  he  could  not  formulate 
^^^^^^^^^  any  theory  to  account 
for  the  startling  phenomenon  of  a  roll 
of  bank-notes  loose  under  a  chair  on 
the  first-floor  landing  of  his  great-aunt's 
house;  he  could  not  even  estimate  the 
value  of  the  roll — he  felt  only  that  it 
was  indefinitely  prodigious.  But  he 
had  the  most  sensitive  appreciation  of 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  those  pieces 
of  paper.  They  were  not  merely  beauti- 
ful because  they  stood  for  delight  and 
indulgence,  raising  lovely  visions  of 
hosiers'  and  jewelers'  shops  and  the 
night  interiors  of  clubs  and  restau- 
rant— raising  one  clear  vision  of  himself 
clasping  a  watch-bracelet  on  the  soft 
arm  of  Rachel,  who  had  so  excitingly 
smiled  upon  him  a  moment  ago.  They 
were  beautiful  in  themselves;  the  aspect 
and  very  texture  of  them  were  beauti- 
ful— surpassing  pictures  and  fine  scen- 
ery. They  were  the  most  poetic  things 
in  the  world.  They  transfigured  the 
narrow  gaslit  first-floor  landing  of  his 
great-aunt's  house  into  a  secret  and 
unearthly  grove  of  bliss.  He  was 
drunk  with  quivering  emotion. 

And  then,  as  he  gazed  at  the  divine 
characters  printed  in  sable  on  the 
rustling  whiteness,  he  was  aware  of  a 
stab  of  ugly,  coarse  pain.  Up  to  the 
instant  of  beholding  those  bank-notes 
he  had  been  convinced  that  his  opera- 
tions upon  the  petty-cash  book  would 
be  entirely  successful  and  that  the 
immediate  future  at  Horrocleave's  was 
assured  of  tranquillity;  he  had  been 


blandly  certain  that  Horrocleave  held 
no  horrid  suspicion  against  him,  and 
that  even  if  Horrocleave's  pate  did  con- 
ceal a  dark  thought,  it  would  be  con- 
jured at  once  away  by  the  superficial 
reasonableness  of  the  falsified  accounts. 
But  now  his  mind  was  terribly  and 
inexplicably  changed,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  impossible  to  gull  the  acute  and 
mighty  Horrocleave.  Failure,  exposure, 
disgrace,  ruin,  seemed  inevitable — and 
also  intolerable.  It  was  astonishing 
that  he  should  have  deceived  himself 
into  an  absurd  security.  The  bank- 
notes, by  some  magic  virtue  which  they 
possessed,  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
truth.  And  they  presented  themselves 
as  absolutely  indispensable  to  him. 
They  had  sprung  from  naught,  they 
belonged  to  nobody,  they  existed  with- 
out a  creative  cause  in  the  material 
world, — and  they  were  indispensable  to 
him!  Could  it  be  conceived  that  he 
should  lose  his  high  and  brilliant  position 
in  the  town,  that  two  policemen  should 
hustle  him  into  the  black  van,  that  the 
gates  of  a  prison  should  clang  behind 
him?  It  could  not  be  conceived.  It 
was  monstrously  inconceivable.  .  .  . 
The  bank-notes  ...  he  saw  them  wavy, 
as  through  a  layer  of  hot  air. 

A  heavy  knock  on  the  front  door 
below  shook  him  and  the  floor  and  the 
walls.  He  heard  the  hurried  feet  of 
Rachel,  the  opening  of  the  door,  and 
Julian's  harsh,  hoarse  voice.  Julian 
then  was  not  quite  an  hour  late,  after 
all.  The  stir  in  the  lobby  seemed  to  be 
enormous,  and  very  close  to  him;  Mrs. 
Maldon  had  come  forth  from  the  parlor 
to  greet  Julian  on  his  birthday.  .  .  . 
Louis  stuck  the  bank-notes  into  the 
side  pocket  of  his  coat.  And  as  it  were 
automatically  his  mood  underwent  a 
change   violent   and   complete.  "I'll 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


233 


teach  the  old  lady  to  drop  notes  all  over 
the  place,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll 
just  teach  her!"  And  he  pictured  his 
triumph  as  a  wise  male  when,  during 
the  course  of  the  feast,  his  great-aunt 
should  stumble  on  her  loss  and  yield  to 
senile  feminine  agitation,  and  he  should 
remark  superiorly,  with  elaborate  calm: 
"Here  is  your  precious  money,  Auntie. 
A  good  thing  it  was  I  and  not  burglars 
who  discovered  it.  Let  this  be  a  lesson 
to  you!  .  .  .  Where  was  it?  It  was 
on  the  landing  carpet,  if  you  please! 
That's  where  it  was! — "  And  the 
nice  old  creature's  pathetic  relief! 

As  he  went  jauntily  down-stairs  there 
remained  nothing  of  his  mood  of  in- 
toxication except  a  still  thumping  heart. 

CHAPTER  III 

THE  FEAST 

THE  dramatic  moment  of  the  birth- 
day feast  came  nearly  at  the  end 
of  the  meal  when  Mrs.  Maldon, 
having  in  mysterious  silence  disap- 
peared for  a  space  to  the  room  behind, 
returned  with  due  pomp  bearing  a 
parcel  in  her  dignified  hands.  During 
her  brief  absence  Louis,  Rachel,  and 
Julian — hero  of  the  night — had  sat 
mute  and  somewhat  constrained  round 
the  debris  of  the  birthday  pudding. 
The  constraint  was  no  doubt  due  partly 
to  Julian's  characteristic  and  notorious 
grim  temper,  and  partly  to  mere  an- 
ticipation of  a  solemn  event. 

Julian  Maldon  in  particular  was  self- 
conscious.  He  hated  intensely  to  be 
self-conscious,  and  his  feeling  toward 
every  witness  of  his  self-consciousness 
partook  always  of  the  homicidal.  Were 
it  not  that  civilization  has  the  means 
to  protect  itself,  Julian  might  have 
murdered  defenseless  aged  ladies  and 
innocent  young  girls  for  the  simple  of- 
fense of  having  seen  him  blush. 

He  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  a  throw- 
back to  original  ancestry.  He  had  been 
born  in  London,  of  an  American  mother, 
and  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  London.  Yet  London  and  his 
mother  seemed  to  count  for  absolutely 
nothing  at  all  in  his  composition.  At 
the  age  of  seventeen  his  soul,  quitting 
the  exile  of  London,  had  come  to  the 


Five  Towns  with  a  sigh  of  relief  as  if  at 
the  assuagement  of  a  long  nostalgia, 
and  had  dropped  into  the  district  as 
into  a  socket.  In  three  months  he  was 
more  indigenous  than  a  native.  Any 
experienced  observer  who  now  chanced 
at  a  week-end  to  see  him  board  the 
Manchester  express  at  Euston  would 
have  been  able  to  predict  from  his 
appearance  that  he  would  leave  the 
train  at  Knype.  He  was  an  under- 
sized man,  with  a  combative  and  sus- 
picious face.  He  regarded  the  world 
with  crafty  pugnacity  from  beneath 
frowning  eyebrows.  His  expression 
said:  "Woe  betide  the  being  who 
tries  to  get  the  better  of  me!"  His 
expression  said:  "Keep  off!"  His  ex- 
pression said:  "I  am  that  I  am. 
Take  me  or  leave  me,  but  preferably 
leave  me.  I  loathe  fuss,  pretense, 
flourishes — any  and  every  form  of 
damned  nonsense." 

He  had  an  excellent  heart,  but  his 
attitude  toward  it  was  the  attitude 
of  his  great- grandmother  toward  her 
front  parlor — he  used  it  as  little  as 
possible,  and  kept  it  locked  up  like  a 
shame.  In  brief,  he  was  more  than  a 
bit  of  a  boor.  And  boorishness  being  his 
chief  fault,  he  was  quite  naturally  proud 
of  it,  counted  it  for  the  finest  of  all 
qualities,  and  scorned  every  manifes- 
tation of  its  opposite.  To  prove  his 
inward  sincerity  he  deemed  it  right  to 
flout  any  form  of  external  grace — such 
as  politeness,  neatness,  elegance,  com- 
pliments, small-talk,  smooth  words, 
and  all  ceremonial  whatever.  He  would 
have  died  in  torment  sooner  than  kiss. 
He  was  averse  even  from  shaking  hands, 
and  when  he  did  shake  hands  he  pro- 
duced a  carpenter's  vise,  crushed  flesh 
and  bone  together,  and  flung  the  in- 
truding pulp  away.  His  hat  was  so 
heavy  on  his  head  that  only  by  an 
exhausting  and  supreme  effort  could 
he  raise  it  to  a  woman,  and  after  the 
odious  accident  he  would  feel  as  humili- 
ated as  a  fox-terrier  after  a  bath.  By 
the  kind  hazard  of  fate  he  had  never 
once  encountered  his  great-aunt  in  the 
street.  He  was  superb  in  enmity — a 
true  hero.  He  would  quarrel  with  a 
fellow  and  say,  curtly:  "I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again";  and  he  never 
would  speak  to  that  fellow  again.  Were 


234 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


the  last  trump  to  blow  and  all  the 
British  Isle  to  be  submerged  save  the 
summit  of  Snowdon,  and  he  and  that 
fellow  to  find  themselves  alone  and  safe 
together  on  the  peak,  he  could  still 
be  relied  upon  never  to  speak  to  that 
fellow  again.  Thus  would  he  prove  that 
he  was  a  man  of  his  word  and  that  there 
was  no  nonsense  about  him. 

Strange  though  it  may  appear  to  the 
thoughtless,  he  was  not  disliked — 
much  less  ostracized.  Codes  differ. 
He  conformed  to  one  which  suited  the 
instincts  of  some  thirty  thousand  other 
adult  males  in  the  Five  Towns.  Two 
strapping  girls  in  the  warehouse  of  his 
manufactory  at  Knype  quarreled  over 
him  in  secret  as  the  Prince  Charming 
of  those  parts.  Yet  he  had  never  ad- 
dressed them  except  to  inform  them 
that  if  they  didn't  mind  their  p's  and 
q's  he  would  have  them  flung  off  the 
"bank"  (manufactory).  Rachel  her- 
self had  not  yet  begun  to  be  prejudiced 
against  him. 

This  monster  of  irascible  cruelty  re- 
garded himself  as  a  middle-aged  person. 
But  he  was  only  twenty-five  that  day, 
and  he  did  not  look  more,  either, 
despite  a  stiff,  strong  mustache.  He 
too,  like  Louis  and  Rachel,  had  the 
gestures  of  youth — the  unconsidered 
lithe  movements  of  limb,  the  wistful 
unteachable  pride  of  his  age,  the  touch- 
ing self-confidence.  Old  Mrs.  Maldon 
was  indeed  old  among  them. 

She  sat  down  in  all  her  benevolent 
stateliness  and  with  a  slightly  irritating 
deliberation  undid  the  parcel,  displaying 
a  flattish  leather  case  about  seven 
inches  by  four,  which  she  handed 
formally  to  Julian  Maldon,  saying  as  she 
did  so: 

"From  your  old  auntie,  my  dear 
boy,  with  her  loving  wishes.  You  have 
now  lived  just  a  quarter  of  a  century." 

And  as  Julian,  awkwardly  grinning, 
fumbled  with  the  spring-catch  of  the 
case,  she  was  aware  of  having  accom- 
plished a  great  and  noble  act  of  sur- 
render. She  hoped  the  best  from  it. 
In  particular,  she  hoped  that  she  had 
saved  the  honor  of  her  party  and  put 
it  at  last  on  a  secure  footing  of  urbane 
convivial  success.  For  that  a  party 
of  hers  should  fail  in  giving  pleasure  to 


every  member  of  it  was  a  menace  to 
her  legitimate  pride.  And  so  far  fate 
had  not  been  propitious.  The  money 
in  the  house  had  been,  and  was,  on  her 
mind.  Then  the  lateness  of  the  guests 
had  disturbed  her.  And  then  Julian 
had  aggrieved  her  by  a  piece  of  obsti- 
nacy very  like  himself.  Arriving  straight 
from  a  train  journey,  he  had  wanted 
to  wash.  But  he  would  not  go  to  the 
specially  prepared  bedroom  where  a 
perfect  apparatus  awaited  him.  No, 
he  must  needs  take  off  his  jacket  in  the 
back  room  and  roll  up  his  sleeves  and 
stamp  into  the  scullery  and  there  splash 
and  rub  like  a  stableman,  and  wipe 
himself  on  the  common  rough  roller- 
towel.  He  said  he  preferred  the  "sink." 
(Offensive  word!  He  would  not  even 
say  "slopstone,"  which  was  the  proper 
word.  He  said  "sink,"  and  again 
sink.  ) 

And  then,  when  the  meal  finally  did 
begin,  Mrs.  Maldon's  serviette  and  sil- 
ver serviette-ring  had  vanished.  Im- 
possible to  find  them!  Mr.  Batchgrew 
had  of  course  horribly  disarranged  the 
table,  and  in  the  upset  the  serviette 
and  ring  might  have  fallen  unnoticed 
into  the  darkness  beneath  the  table. 
But  no  search  could  discover  them. 
Had  the  serviette  and  ring  ever  been  on 
the  table  at  all?  Had  Rachel  perchance 
forgotten  them?  Rachel  was  certain 
that  she  had  put  them  on  the  table. 
She  remembered  casting  away  a  soiled 
serviette  and  replacing  it  with  a  clean 
one  in  accordance  with  Mrs.  Maldon's 
command  for  the  high  occasion.  She 
produced  the  soiled  serviette  in  proof. 
Moreover,  the  ring  was  not  in  the  servi- 
ette drawer  of  the  sideboard.  Renewed 
search  was  equally  sterile.  ...  At  one 
moment  Mrs.  Maldon  thought  that  she 
herself  had  seen  the  serviette  and  ring 
on  the  table  early  in  the  evening;  but 
at  the  next  she  thought  she  had  not. 
Conceivably  Mr.  Batchgrew  had  taken 
them  in  mistake.  Yes,  assuredly,  he 
had  taken  them  in  mistake — somehow! 
And  yet  it  was  inconceivable  that  he 
had  taken  a  serviette  and  ring  in  mis- 
take.   In  mistake  for  what?    No!  .  .  . 

Mystery  !  Excessively  disconcerting 
for  an  old  lady!  In  the  end  Rachel 
provided  another  clean  serviette,  and 
the  meal  commenced.    But  Mrs.  Mai- 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


235 


don  had  not  been  able  to  "settle  down" 
in  an  instant.  The  wise,  pitying  crea- 
tures in  their  twenties  considered  that 
it  was  absurd  for  her  to  worry  herself 
about  such  a  trifle.  But  was  it  a 
trifle?  It  was  rather  a  denial  of  natural 
laws,  a  sinister  miracle.  Serviette  rings 
cannot  walk,  nor  fly,  nor  be  annihilated. 
And  further,  she  had  used  that  servi- 
ette ring  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
However,  the  hostess  in  her  soon  had 
triumphed  over  the  foolish  old  lady 
and  taken  the  head  of  the  board  with 
aplomb. 

And  indeed  aplomb  had  been  re- 
quired. For  the  guests  behaved  strange- 
ly— unless  it  was  that  the  hostess  was  in 
a  nervous  mood  for  fancying  trouble! 
Julian  Maldon  was  fidgety  and  pre- 
occupied. And  Louis  himself — usually 
a  model  guest — was  also  fidgety  and 
preoccupied.  As  for  Rachel,  the  poor 
girl  had  only  too  obviously  lost  her 
head  about  Louis.  Mrs.  Maldon  had 
never  seen  anything  like  it,  never! 

Julian,  having  opened  the  case, 
disclosed  twin  briar  pipes  silver- 
mounted,  with  alternative  stems  of 
various  lengths  and  diverse  mouth- 
pieces— all  reposing  on  soft  couches 
of  fawn-tinted  stuff,  with  a  crimson- 
silk-lined  lid  to  serve  them  for  canopy. 
A  rich  and  costly  array!  Everybody 
was  impressed,  even  startled.  For  not 
merely  was  the  gift  extremely  hand- 
some— it  was  more  than  a  gift;  it 
symbolized  the  end  of  an  epoch  in  those 
lives.  Mrs.  Maldon  had  been  no  friend 
of  tobacco.  She  had  lukewarmly  per- 
mitted cigarettes,  which  Louis  smoked, 
smoking  naught  else.  But  cigars  she 
had  discouraged,  and  pipes  she  simply 
would  not  have!  Now,  Julian  smoked 
nothing  but  a  pipe.  Hence  in  his 
great-aunt's  parlor  he  had  not  smoked; 
in  effect  he  had  been  forbidden  to 
smoke  there.  The  theory  that  a  pipe 
was  vulgar  had  been  stiffly  maintained 
in  that  sacred  parlor.  In  the  light 
of  these  facts  does  not  Mrs.  Maldon's 
gift  indeed  shine  as  a  great  and  noble 
act  of  surrender?  Was  it  not  more 
than  a  gift,  and  entitled  to  stagger 
beholders?  Was  it  not  a  sublime  proof 
that  the  earth  revolves  and  the  world 
moves  ? 


Mrs.  Maldon  was  as  susceptible  as 
anyone  to  the  drama  of  the  moment, 
perhaps  more  than  anyone.  She 
thrilled  and  became  happy  as  Julian 
in  silence  minutely  examined  the  pipes. 
She  had  taken  expert  advice  before 
purchasing,  and  she  was  tranquil  as  to 
the  ability  of  the  pipes  to  withstand 
criticism.  They  bore  the  magic  triple 
initials  of  the  first  firm  of  briar-pipe 
makers  in  the  world — initials  as  famous 
and  as  welcome  on  the  plains  of  Hin- 
dustan as  in  the  Home  Counties  or  the 
frozen  zone.  She  gazed  round  the  table 
with  increasing  satisfaction.  Louis, 
who  was  awkwardly  fixed  with  regard 
to  the  light,  the  shadow  of  his  bust 
falling  always  across  his  plate,  had 
borne  that  real  annoyance  with  the 
most  charming  good-humor.  He  was 
a  delight  to  the  eye;  he  had  excel- 
lent qualities,  especially  social  qualities. 
Rachel  sat  opposite  to  the  hostess.  An 
admirable  girl  in  most  ways;  a  splendid 
companion  and  a  sound  cook.  The 
meal  had  been  irreproachable,  and  in 
the  phrase  of  the  Signal  "ample  justice 
had  been  done"  to  it.  Julian  was  on 
the  hostess's  left,  with  his  back  to  the 
window  and  to  the  draught.  A  good 
boy,  a  sterling  boy,  if  peculiar!  And 
there  they  were  all  close  together, 
intimate,  familiar,  mutally  respecting; 
and  the  perfect  parlor  was  round  about 
them:  a  domestic  organism,  honest, 
dignified,  worthy,  more  than  comfort- 
able. And  she,  Elizabeth  Maldon,  in 
her  old  age,  was  the  head  of  it,  and  the 
fount  of  good  things. 

"Thank  ye!"  ejaculated  Julian,  with 
a  queer  look  askance  at  his  benefactor. 
"Thank  ye,  aunt!" 

It  was  all  he  could  get  out  of  his 
throat,  and  it  was  all  that  was  expected 
of  him.  He  hated  to  give  thanks — 
and  he  hated  to  be  thanked.  The 
grandeur  of  the  present  flattered  him. 
Nevertheless,  he  regarded  it  as  essen- 
tially absurd  in  its  pretentiousness.  The 
pipes  were  Ai,  but  could  a  man  carry 
about  a  huge  contraption  like  that? 
All  a  man  needed  was  an  Ai  pipe, 
which,  if  he  had  any  sense,  he  would 
carry  loose  in  his  pocket  with  his 
pouch — and  be  hanged  to  morocco 
cases  and  silk  linings! 

"Stoke  up,  my  hearties!"  said  Louis, 


236 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


drawing  forth  a  gun-metal  cigarette  case, 
which  was  chained  to  his  person  by  a 
kind  of  cable. 

Undoubtedly  the  case  of  pipes  repre- 
sented for  Julian  a  triumph  over  Louis, 
or,  at  least,  justice  against  Louis.  For 
obvious  reasons  Julian  had  not  quar- 
reled with  a  rich  and  affectionate  great- 
aunt  because  she  had  accorded  to  Louis 
the  privilege  of  smoking  in  her  parlor 
what  he  preferred  to  smoke,  while  refus- 
ing a  similar  privilege  to  himself.  But 
he  had  resented  the  distinction.  And 
his  joy  in  the  spectacular  turn  of  the 
wheel  was  vast.  For  that  very  reason 
he  hid  it  with  much  care.  Why  should 
he  bubble  over  with  gratitude  for 
having  been  at  last  treated  fairly?  It 
would  be  pitifu^  to  do  so.  Leaving  the 
case  open  upon  the  table,  he  pulled  a 
pouch  and  an  old  pipe  from  his  pocket, 
and  began  to  fill  the  pipe.  It  was  in- 
excusable, but  it  was  like  him — he  had 
to  do  it. 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  try  one  of 
the  new  ones?"  asked  Mrs.  Maldon, 
amiably  but  uncertainly. 

"No,"  said  he,  with  cold  nonchalance. 
Upon  nobody  in  the  world  had  the 
sweet  magic  of  Mrs.  Maldon's  demeanor 
less  influence  than  upon  himself.  "Not 
now.  I  want  to  enjoy  my  smoke,  and 
the  first  smoke  out  of  a  new  pipe  is 
never  any  good." 

It  was  very  true,  but  far  more  wanton 
than  true.  Mrs.  Maldon  in  her  igno- 
rance could  not  appreciate  the  truth, 
but  she  could  appreciate  its  wantonness. 
She  was  wounded — silly,  touchy  old 
thing!  She  was  wounded,  and  she  hid 
the  wound. 

Rachel  flushed  with  ire  against  the 
boor. 

"By  the  way,"  Mrs.  Maldon  re- 
marked in  a  light,  indifferent  tone,  just 
as  though  the  glory  of  the  moment  had 
not  been  suddenly  rent  and  shriveled, 
"I  didn't  see  your  portmanteau  in  the 
back  room  just  now,  Julian.  Has  any 
one  carried  it  up-stairs?  I  didn't  hear 
anyone  go  up-stairs." 

"I  didn't  bring  one,  aunt,"  said 
Julian. 

"Not  bring—" 

"I  was  forgetting  to  tell  ye.  I  can't 
sleep  here  to-night.  I'm  off  to  South 
Africa  to-morrow,  and  I've  got  a  lot 


of  things  to  fix  up  at  my  digs  to-night." 
He  lit  the  old  pipe  from  a  match  which 
Louis  passed  to  him. 

"To  South  Africa?"  murmured  Mrs. 
Maldon,  aghast.  And  she  repeated, 
"South  Africa?"  To  her  it  was  an 
incredible  distance.  It  was  not  a 
place — it  was  something  on  the  map. 
Perhaps  she  had  never  imaginatively 
realized  that  actual  people  did  in  fact 
go  to  South  Africa.  "But  this  is  the 
first  I  have  heard  of  this!"  she  said. 
Julian's  extraordinary  secretiveness  al- 
ways disturbed  her. 

"I  only  got  the  telegram  about  my 
berth  this  morning,"  said  Julian,  rather 
sullenly  on  the  defensive. 

"Is  it  business?"  Mrs.  Maldon  asked. 

"You  may  depend  it  isn't  pleasure, 
aunt,"  he  answered,  and  shut  his  lips 
tight  on  the  pipe. 

After  a  pause  Mrs.  Maldon  tried 
again. 

"Where  do  you  sail  from?" 
Julian  answered: 
"Southampton." 

There  was  another  pause.  Louis  and 
Rachel  exchanged  a  glance  of  sympa- 
thetic dismay  at  the  situation. 

Mrs.  Maldon  then  smiled  with  plain- 
tive courage. 

"Of  course  if  you  can't  sleep  here, 
you  can't,"  said  she  benignly.  "I  can 
see  that.  But  we  are  quite  counting  on 
having  a  man  in  the  house  to-night — 
with  all  these  burglars  about — weren't 
we,  Rachel?"  Her  grimace  became,  by 
an  effort,  semi-humorous. 

Rachel  diplomatically  echoed  the 
tone  of  Mrs.  Maldon,  but  more  brightly, 
with  a  more  frankly  humorous  smile: 

"We  were,  indeed!" 

But  her  smile  was  a  masterpiece  of 
duplicity,  somewhat  strange  in  a  girl 
so  downright;  for  beneath  it  burned 
hotly  her  anger  against  the  brute 
Julian. 

"Well,  there  it  is!"  Julian  gruflly 
and  callously  summed  up  the  situation, 
staring  at  the  inside  of  his  teacup. 

"Propitious  moment  for  getting  a 
monopoly  of  door-knobs  at  the  Cape, 
I  suppose?"  said  Louis,  quizzically. 
His  cousin  manufactured,  among  other 
articles,  white  and  jet  door-knobs. 

"No  need  for  you  to  be  so  desperately 
funny!"  snapped  Julian,  who  detested 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


237 


Louis*  brand  of  facetiousness.  It  was 
the  word  "propitious"  that  somehow 
annoyed  him — it  had  a  sarcastic  flavor, 
and  it  was  "Louis  all  over." 

"No  offense,  old  man!"  Louis  mag- 
nanimously soothed  him.  "On  the 
contrary,  many  happy  returns  of  the 
day."  In  social  intercourse  the  younger 
cousin's  good  humor  and  suavity  were 
practically  indestructible. 

But  Julian  still  scowled. 

Rachel,  to  make  a  tactful  diversion, 
rose  and  began  to  collect  plates.  The 
meal  was  at  an  end,  and  for  Mrs.  Mal- 
don  it  had  closed  in  ignominy.  From 
her  quarter  of  the  table  she  pushed 
crockery  toward  Rachel  with  a  gesture 
of  disillusion;  the  courage  to  smile  had 
been  but  momentary.  She  felt  old — 
older  than  she  had  ever  felt  before. 
The  young  generation  presented  them- 
selves to  her  as  almost  completely 
enigmatic.  She  admitted  that  they 
were  foreign  to  her;  that  she  could  not 
comprehend  them  at  all.  Each  of  the 
three  at  her  table  was  entirely  free  and 
independent — each  could  and  did  act 
according  to  his  or  her  whim,  and  none 
could  say  them  nay.  Such  freedom 
seemed  unreal.  They  were  children 
playing  at  life,  and  playing  dangerously. 
Hundreds  of  times,  in  conversation 
with  her  coevals,  she  had  cheerfully 
protested  against  the  banal  complaint 
that  the  world  had  changed  of  late 
years.  But  now  she  felt  grievously  that 
the  world  was  different — that  it  had 
indeed  deteriorated  since  her  young 
days.  She  was  fatigued  by  the  modes 
of  thought  of  these  youngsters,  as  a 
nurse  or  mother  is  fatigued  by  too  long 
a  spell  of  the  shrillness  and  the  naivete 
of  a  family  of  infants.  She  wanted 
repose.  .  .  .  Was  it  conceivable  that 
when,  with  incontestable  large-minded- 
ness,  she  had  given  a  case  of  pipes  to 
Julian,  he  should  first  put  a  slight  on 
her  gift  and  then,  brusquely  leaving  her 
in  the  lurch,  announce  his  departure  for 
South  Africa  with  as  much  calm  as 
though  South  Africa  were  in  the  next 
street?  .  .  .  And  the  other  two  were 
guilty  in  other  ways,  perhaps  more 
subtly,  of  treason  against  forlorn  old 
age. 

And  then  Louis,  in  taking  the  slop- 
basin  from  her  trembling  fingers,  to 

Vol.  CXXVIII  —  No.  764.-30 


pass  it  to  Rachel,  gave  her  one  of  his 
adorable,  candid,  persuasive,  sympa- 
thetic smiles.  And  lo!  she  was  en- 
heartened  once  more.  And  she  re- 
membered that  dignity  and  kindliness 
had  been  the  watchwords  of  her  whole 
life,  and  that  it  would  be  shameful  to 
relinquish  the  struggle  for  an  ideal  at 
the  very  threshold  of  the  grave.  She 
began  to  find  excuses  for  Julian.  The 
dear  lad  must  have  many  business 
worries.  He  was  very  young  to  be  at 
the  head  of  a  manufacturing  concern. 
He  had  a  remarkable  brain — worthy  of 
the  family.  Allowances  must  be  made 
for  him.  She  must  not  be  selfish.  .  .  . 
And  assuredly  that  serviette  and  ring 
would  reappear  on  the  morrow. 

"I'll  take  that  out,"  said  Louis,  in- 
dicating the  tray  which  Rachel  had 
drawn  from  concealment  under  the 
Chesterfield,  and  which  was  now  loaded. 
Mrs.  Maldon  employed  an  old  and 
valued  charwoman  in  the  mornings. 
Rachel  accomplished  all  the  rest  of  the 
housework  herself,  including  cookery, 
and  she  accomplished  it  with  the  stylis- 
tic smartness  of  a  self-respecting  lady- 
help. 

"Oh  no!"  said  she.  "I  can  carry  it 
quite  easily,  thanks." 

Louis  insisted  masculinely: 

"/'ll  take  that  tray  out." 

And  he  took  it  out,  holding  his  head 
back  as  he  marched,  so  that  the  smoke 
of  the  cigarette  between  his  lips  should 
not  obscure  his  eyes.  Rachel  followed 
with  some  oddments.  Behold  those 
two  away  together  in  the  seclusion  of 
the  kitchen;  and  Mrs.  Maldon  and 
Julian  alone  in  the  parlor! 

"Very  fine!"  muttered  Julian,  finger- 
ing the  magnificent  case  of  pipes.  Now 
that  there  were  fewer  spectators,  his 
tongue  was  looser,  and  he  could  relent. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  like  it,"  Mrs.  Mal- 
don responded,  eagerly. 

The  world  was  brighter  to  her,  and 
she  accepted  Julian's  amiability  as 
Heaven's  reward  for  her  renewal  of 
courage. 

"Auntie,"  began  Louis,  with  a  certain 
formality. 

"Yes?" 

Mrs.  Maldon  had  turned  her  chair  a 
little  toward  the  fire.  The  two  visitants 


238 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


to  the  kitchen  had  reappeared.  Rachel 
with  a  sickle-shaped  tool  was  sedulously 
brushing  the  crumbs  from  the  damask 
into  a  silver  tray.  Louis  had  taken  the 
poker  to  mend  the  fire. 

He  said,  nonchalantly: 

"If  you'd  care  for  me  to  stay  the 
night  here  instead  of  Julian,  I  will." 

"Well—"  Mrs.  Maldon  was  un- 
prepared for  this  apparently  quite 
natural  and  kindly  suggestion.  It  per- 
turbed, even  frightened  her  by  its  im- 
plications. Had  it  been  planned  in 
the  kitchen  between  those  two?  She 
wanted  to  accept  it;  and  yet  another 
instinct  in  her  prompted  her  to  decline 
it  absolutely  and  at  once.  She  saw 
Rachel  flushing  as  the  girl  industriously 
continued  her  task  without  looking  up. 
To  Mrs.  Maldon  it  seemed  that  those 
two,  under  the  impulsion  of  fate,  were 
rushing  toward  each  other  at  a  speed 
far  greater  than  she  had  suspected. 

Julian  stirred  on  his  chair,  under  the 
sharp  irritation  caused  by  Louis'  pro- 
posal. He  despised  Louis  as  a  boy  of  no 
ambition — a  butterfly  being  who  had  got 
no  further  than  the  adolescent  will- 
to-live,  the  desire  for  self-indulgence, 
whereas  he,  Julian,  was  profoundly 
conscious  of  the  will-to-dominate,  the 
hunger  for  influence  and  power.  And 
also  he  was  jealous  of  Louis  on  various 
counts.  Louis  had  come  to  the  Five 
Towns  years  after  Julian,  and  had 
almost  immediately  cut  a  figure  therein; 
Julian  had  never  cut  a  figure.  Julian 
had  been  the  sole  resident  great-nephew 
of  a  benevolent  aunt,  and  Louis  had 
arrived  and  usurped  at  least  half  the 
advantages  of  the  relationship,  if  not 
more;  Louis  lived  several  miles  nearer 
to  his  aunt.  Julian  it  was  who,  through 
his  acquaintance  with  Rachel's  father 
and  her  masterful  sinister  brother,  had 
brought  her  into  touch  with  Mrs.  Mal- 
don. Rachel  was  Julian's  creation,  so 
far  as  his  aunt  was  concerned.  Julian 
had  no  dislike  for  Rachel;  he  had  even 
been  thinking  of  her  favorably.  But 
Louis  had,  as  it  were,  appropriated 
her!  .  .  .  From  the  steely  conning-tower 
of  his  brows  Julian  had  caught  their 
private  glances  at  the  table.  And 
Louis  was  now  carrying  trays  for  her, 
and  hobnobbing  with  her  in  the  kitchen! 
Lastly,  because  Julian  could  not  pass 


the  night  in  the  house,  Louis,  the  inter- 
loper, had  the  effrontery  to  offer  to  fill 
his  place — on  some  preposterous  excuse 
about  burglars!  And  the  fellow  was  so 
polite  and  so  persuasive,  with  his  finick- 
ing elegance.  By  virtue  of  a  strange 
faculty  not  uncommon  in  human  nature 
Julian  loathed  Louis'  good  manners 
and  appearance  —  and  acutely  envied 
them. 

He  burst  out  with  scarcely  controlled 
savagery: 

"A  lot  of  good  you'd  be,  with  burg- 
lars!" 

The  women  were  outraged  by  his 
really  shocking  rudeness.  Rachel  bit 
her  lip  and  began  to  fold  up  the  cloth. 
Mrs.  Maldon's  head  slightly  trembled. 
Louis  alone  maintained  a  perfect 
equanimity.  It  was  as  if  he  were  in- 
vulnerable. 

"You  never  know — !"  he  smiled 
amiably  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Then  he  finished  his  operation  on  the 
fire. 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  and  thought- 
ful of  you,  Louis,"  said  Mrs.  Maldon, 
driven  to  acceptance  by  Julian's  mon- 
strous behavior. 

"Moreover,"  Louis  urbanely  con- 
tinued, smoothing  down  his  trousers 
with  a  long  perpendicular  caress  as  he 
usually  did  after  any  bending,  "more- 
over, there's  always  my  revolver." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Revolver!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mal- 
don, intimidated  by  the  mere  name. 
Then  she  smiled,  in  an  effort  to  reassure 
herself.  "Louis,  you  are  a  tease.  You 
really  shouldn't  tease  me." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Louis,  with  that  care- 
ful air  of  false  bland  casualness  which 
he  would  invariably  employ  for  his 
more  breath-taking  announcements.  "  I 
always  carry  a  loaded  revolver." 

The  fearful  word  "loa'ded"  sank  into 
the  heart  of  the  old  woman,  and  thrilled 
her.  It  was  a  fact  that  for  some  weeks 
past  Louis  had  been  carrying  a  revolver. 
At  intervals  the  craze  for  firearms  seizes 
the  fashionable  youth  of  a  provincial 
town,  like  the  craze  for  marbles  at 
school,  and  then  dies  away.  In  the 
present  instance  it  had  been  originated 
by  the  misadventure  of  a  dandy  with 
an  out-of-work  artisan  on  the  fringe  of 
Hanbridge.    Nothing   could   be  more 


Painting  by  C.  E.  Chambers 

HOLDING    HIS    HEAD    BACK    AS    HE  MARCHED 


THE  PRICE  OF  LOVE 


239 


correct  than  for  a  man  of  spirit  and 
fashion  thus  to  arm  himself  in  order  to 
cow  the  lower  orders  and  so  cope  with 
the  threatened  social  revolution. 

"You  don't,  Louis!"  Mrs.  Maldon 
deprecated. 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Louis,  feeling 
in  his  hip-pocket. 

"Please!"  protested  Mrs.  Maldon,  and 
Rachel  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  drew  back  from  Louis'  sinister 
gesture.  "Please  don't  show  it  to  us!" 
Mrs.  Maldon's  tone  was  one  of  im- 
ploring entreaty.  For  an  instant  she 
was  just  like  a  sentimentalist  who  re- 
sents and  is  afraid  of  hearing  the  truth. 
She  obscurely  thought  that  if  she 
resolutely  refused  to  see  the  revolver 
it  would  somehow  cease  to  exist.  With 
a  loaded  revolver  in  the  house  the 
situation  seemed  more  dangerous  and 
more  complicated  than  ever.  There 
was  something  absolutely  terrifying  in 
the  conjuncture  of  a  loaded  revolver 
and  a  secret  hoard  of  bank-notes. 

"All  right!  All  right!"  Louis  re- 
lented. 

Julian  cut  across  the  scene  with  a 
gruff  and  final: 

"I  must  clear  out  of  this!" 
He  rose. 

"  Must  you?"  said  his  aunt. 

She  did  not  unduly  urge  him  to  delay, 
for  the  strain  of  family  life  was  exhaust- 
ing her. 

"I  must  catch  the  9.48,"  said  Julian, 
looking  at  the  clock  and  at  his  watch. 

Herein  was  yet  another  example  of 
the  morbid  reticence  which  so  pained 
Mrs.  Maldon.  He  must  have  long  be- 
fore determined  to  catch  the  9.48;  yet 
he  had  said  nothing  about  it  till  the  last 
moment!  He  had  said  nothing  even 
about  South  Africa  until  the  news  was 
forced  from  him.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  he  should  come  direct  to  Bursley 
station  from  his  commercial  journey 
in  Yorkshire  and  Derbyshire,  pass  the 
night  at  his  aunt's  house,  which  was 
conveniently  near  the  station,  and  pro- 
ceed refreshed  to  business  on  the  mor- 
row. A  neat  arrangement,  well  suiting 
the  fact  of  his  birthday!  And  now  he 
had  broken  it  in  silence,  without  a 
warning,  with  the  baldest  possible 
explanation!  His  aunt,  despite  her 
real  interest  in  him,  could  never  extract 


from  him  a  clear  account  of  his  doings 
and  his  movements.  And  this  South- 
African  excursion  was  the  last  and 
worst  illustration  of  his  wilful  cruel 
harshness  to  her. 

Nevertheless,  the  extreme  and  un- 
imaginable remoteness  of  South  Africa 
seemed  to  demand  a  special  high  for- 
mality in  bidding  him  adieu,  and  she 
rendered  it.  If  he  would  not  permit 
her  to  superintend  his  packing — (he  had 
never  even  let  her  come  to  his  rooms!) 
— she  could  at  least  superintend  the 
putting  on  of  his  overcoat.  And  she 
did.  And  instead  of  quitting  him  as 
usual  at  the  door  of  the  parlor  she  in- 
sisted on  going  to  the  front  door  and 
opening  it  herself.  She  was  on  her 
mettle.  She  was  majestic  and  magnifi- 
cent. By  refusing  to  see  his  ill-breeding 
she  actually  did  terminate  its  existence. 
She  stood  at  the  open  front  door  with 
the  three  young  ones  about  her,  and  by 
the  force  of  her  ideal  the  front  door  be- 
came the  portal  of  an  embassy  and 
Julian's  departure  a  ceremony  of  state. 
He  had  to  shake  hands  all  round.  She 
raised  her  cheek,  and  he  had  to  kiss. 
She  said,  "God  bless  you,"  and  he  had 
to  say,  "Thank  you." 

As  he  was  descending  the  outer  steps, 
the  pipe  case  clipped  under  his  arms, 
Louis  threw  at  him: 

"I  say,  old  man." 

"What?"  He  turned  round  with 
sharp  defiance  beneath  the  light  of  the 
street-lamp. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  to  London 
to-morrow  morning  in  time  for  the  boat 
train  at  Waterloo,  if  you're  staying  at 
Knype  to-night?" 

Louis  traveled  little,  but  it  was  his 
foible  to  be  learned  in  boat-trains 
and  "connections." 

"A  friend  o'  mine's  motoring  me  to 
Stafford  at  five  to-morrow  morning, 
if  you  want  to  know.  I  shall  catch  the 
Scotch  express.    Anything  else?" 

"Oh!"  muttered  Louis,  checked. 

Julian  clanked  the  gate  and  vanished 
up  the  street,  Mrs.  Maldon  waving. 

"What  friend?  What  motor?"  re- 
flected Mrs.  Maldon,  sadly.  "He  is 
incorrigible  with  his  secretiveness." 

"Mrs.  Maldon,"  said  Rachel  anx- 
iously, "you  look  pale.  Is  it  being  in 
this  draught?"    She  shut  the  door. 


240 


HARPER'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE 


Mrs.  Maldon  sighed  and  moved  away. 
She  hesitated  at  the  parlor  door  and 
then  said: 

"I  must  go  up-stairs  a  moment." 

CHAPTER  IV 

IN  THE  NIGHT 

LOUIS  stood  hesitant  and  slightly 
impatient  in  the  parlor,  alone.  A 
dark-blue  cloth  now  covered  the 
table,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  was  a  large 
copper